And so the winter passed away, and the spring came again,--the sunshine
and showers of April, more than renewing the delight of the children's
first weeks in Kirklands. They had never been in the country in the
early spring before; and even "bonny Glen Elder," in the prime of
summer, had no wonders such as revealed themselves day by day to their
unaccustomed eyes. The catkins on the willows, the gradual swelling of
the hawthorn-buds, the graceful tassels of the silver birch, were to
them a beauty and a mystery. The gradual change of brown fields to a
living green, as the tender blades of the new-sown grain sprang up, was
wondrous too. The tiny mosses on the rocks, the ferns hidden away from
other eyes, were searched for and rejoiced over. No wild flower by the
wayside, no bird or butterfly, no new development of life in any form,
but won from them a joyful greeting.
And so there were again the pleasant wanderings among hills and glens,
and the pleasanter restings by the burn-side. But they were not so
frequent now, for Lilias' life was a very busy one, and she could not,
even if she had wished, have laid aside the duties she had taken upon
herself. But her freedom was all the sweeter when her duties were done;
and seldom a day passed without an hour or two of bright sunshine and
fresh air, and never before had the world seemed half so beautiful.
And Lilias had another source of happiness, better than birds or flowers
or sunshine: Archie was growing strong again. Before May was out, his
crutches occupied a permanent place behind the cottage-door, and he was
away on the hill without them, drinking in life and health with every
breath of balmy air. He was no longer the little cripple, painfully
following the footsteps of his sister, slackened to suit his lagging
pace. Lame he was still, and always might be, and a slender
"willow-wand of a laddie," as Mrs Stirling still declared; but there
was a tinge of healthy colour on cheek and lip, and instead of the look
that reminded Lilias of the shadow creeping round to the gate of the
kirk-yard, there came back to his face and blithe look of earlier days.
His very voice and smile seemed changed; and his laughter, so seldom
heard for many a weary month, was music to his sister's ear.
Her joy in his returning health was altogether unmingled. Sometimes,
when weary of the noise and confinement of school, it quite rested and
refreshed her to remember that he was out in the air and sunshine. She
never murmured that he enjoyed it all without her; and when he came home
at night, telling, triumphantly, of the miles and miles he had walked
and the new sights he had seen among the hills, her delight was quite as
great as his.
At first Archie had no other interest in his wanderings than that which
pleasant sights and sounds and a consciousness of returning strength
gave him. It was happiness enough to lie down in some quiet valley,
with only his beloved book as his companion, or, seated on some
hill-side, to gaze on a landscape whose loveliness has been the theme of
many a poet's song.
But pleasant sights and sounds, and even his beloved book, did not
always suffice him for companionship; and he soon found his way to more
than one shieling among the hills; and more than one solitary shepherd
soon learnt to look for the coming of the lad, "so old-fashioned, yet so
gladsome." Sometimes he read to them from his favourite books; but
oftener they talked, and Archie heard many a legend of the countryside
from the lips that could tell them best.
His father and grandfather were well remembered by many whom they had
befriended in time of need; and the lad listened with delight to their
praises, and with equal delight repeated them to his aunt and Lilias
when he came home.
But there were other things, which Archie spoke of in whispers to his
sister when they were away together among the hills,--mysterious hints
of their cousin Hugh Blair, and of his mother's troubles with him before
he went away. Not that he had much to tell about him, for there was
little said; but that little was enough to excite the curiosity and
interest of the children with regard to him; and they were never weary
of wondering why he went away, and where he was now, and whether he
would ever come home again.
"I wonder whether Aunt Janet thinks much about him? I wonder why she
never names him to us?" said Archie, one day, after they had been
speaking about him.
Lilias was looking very grave.
"I'm sure she often thinks of him. And I don't wonder that she seldom
speaks about him, when she can have little that is good to say."
"Maybe she thinks him dead," said Archie.
"No: I don't think that," said Lilias, sadly. And after a moment she
added, "Last night the sound of her voice wakened me. She was praying
for him; and it minded me of the `groanings that cannot be uttered.' I
am afraid Aunt Janet has troubles we know nothing about."
Yes, Mrs Blair had troubles which the children did not know of, which
they could hardly have comprehended had they known; and, of late, fears
for Archie had mingled with them. The remembrance of her utter failure
in guiding and governing her own son was ever present with her, filling
her with anxiety with regard to Archie's future. She had no fears for
Lilias, nor when her brother was a cripple had she fears for him. But
now that he was strong and well,--now that he must necessarily be
exposed to other influences, some of which could not but be evil, her
heart grew sick with a feeling of self-distrust as to her own power to
guide him.
It was this which made her listen with something like regret when Archie
told of new friends made among the hills. His frank, open nature made
him altogether unsuspicious of evil in others; and, knowing him to be
easily influenced, she could not but fear that he might be led astray.
Night after night, when Archie came home, she listened earnestly to hear
the names of those with whom he had met; and, though she never heard
anything from the boy's lips or saw anything in his actions to make her
fear that he was changing for the worse, she could not feel quite at
ease concerning him. For there ever came back to her the thought of her
son,--her wandering but still beloved Hugh; and many and earnest were
the prayers that ascended both for the guileless child and the erring,
sinful man, that through all the snares and temptations of life they
might be brought safe home at last.
She could not speak of her fears to Lilias. She could not find it in
her heart to lay the burden of this dread upon the child. She was so
full of the new happiness of seeing her brother strong and well again,
that she could not bear to let the shadow of this cloud fall upon her.
It would do no good; and she had really nothing but her fears to tell.
So in silence she prayed, night and day, that God would disappoint her
fears for Archie, and more than realise his sister's hope for him.
Mrs Stirling's visits to the cottage did not become less frequent as
the summer advanced, and her interest in Lilias seemed to increase with
every visit. Not that she had ceased to torment the child with her
discontented repinings for the past, or her melancholy forebodings for
the future. There was always some subject for comment ready; and Nancy
never let pass unimproved an opportunity to say something depressing.
But Lilias was learning not to mind her; and this was all the easier to
do, now that Archie's ill-health could no longer be her theme.
"Oh, ay! he's looking not so ill," said she, one day, while she stood
with Lilias at the gate, watching Archie, as he dug in the little
garden; "and he's not very lame. If you could only be sure that it
wouldn't break out again. Eh me! but he's growing to look awful like
his cousin Hugh. It's to be hoped that he won't turn out as he has
done."
Lilias gave a startled look towards the house-end, where her aunt was
sitting, as she answered, hurriedly:
"Archie's like my father."
"You needna be feared that I'll speak that name loud enough for her to
hear," said Nancy, answering Lilias' look rather than her words. "I
have more respect for her than that. Poor body! she must carry a sore
heart about with her, for all she looks so quiet and contented like."
Lilias sighed. The same thought had come into her own mind many and
many a time within the last few months.
"Did my cousin Hugh do anything so very bad?" she asked, looking
anxiously into Mrs Stirling's face.
"I dare say the folk that blame him most have done far worse things than
anything they can lay to his charge," said Nancy; "but there's little
doubt he did what made him fear to look on his mother's face again, or
wherefore should he not have come back? His name has never, to my
knowledge, passed her lips from that day till this."
"But Donald Ross, up among the hills, told Archie that folk thought he
had 'listed for a soldier, and that he couldna come back again."
"Well, maybe not," said Nancy. "Far be it from me to seek to make worse
what is bad enough already. It's not unlikely. But, as I was saying,
Archie's growing awfu' like him, and it is to be hoped he will not take
to ill ways. You should have an eye upon him, Lilias, my woman, that he
doesn't take up with folk that `call evil good, and good evil.' It was
that was the ruin of Hugh Blair,--poor laddie!"
"Archie sees no one among the hills that can do him harm," said Lilias,
hastily,--"only Donald Ross and the Muirlands shepherds, and now and
then a herd-laddie from Alliston. He ay tells us, when he comes home,
who he has seen."
"Eh, woman! I didn't mean to anger you," exclaimed Nancy. "I declare,
your eyes are glancing like two coals. But, if your aunt is wise,
she'll put him to some kind of work before long. Laddies like him must
ay be about something; and if they are doing no good it's likely they'll
be doing evil. Your aunt should know that well enough, without the like
of me to tell her."
"But Archie is such a mere child," remonstrated Lilias, forgetting for
the moment that it was Mrs Stirling, the grumbler for the countryside,
that was speaking. "What ill can he get among the hills? And, besides,
what work could he do? It's health for him to wander about among the
hills. It makes him strong."
"You're a child yourself for that matter," said Nancy; "and I'm thinking
what with those children's catechism and work, and one thing and
another, you do the most part of a woman's work. And what's to hinder
your brother more than you? It would keep him out of harm's way."
Lilias suffered this conversation to make her uncomfortable for a few
days, and then she wisely put it from her. She would not speak to
Archie. She would not even seem to distrust him. And still the boy
came and went at his pleasure, enjoying his rambles and his intercourse
with his new friends, glad to go forth, and glad to come home again,
where the sight of his face always made sunshine for his sister. And
Mrs Blair still went about with outward calm, but carrying within her a
heavy and anxious heart, as by the sighs and prayers of many a sleepless
night, Lilias well knew.
This was the child's one sorrow. Sometimes she longed to speak to her
aunt about her cousin, and comfort her by weeping with her; but she
never had courage to broach the subject. The wanderer's name had never
been mentioned between them; and Lilias had something like a feeling of
guilt upon her in hearing, as she could not but hear, the midnight
mourning of the stricken mother.
"And to think that this trouble has been upon her for so many years!"
she thought to herself, one night, as she lay listening to her aunt's
sighs and murmured prayers. "It must be ten years at least; for I have
no recollection of my cousin Hugh. And she has carried about this great
grief all that time alone, and has sought comfort from no one. Oh, if I
could but comfort her!" for Lilias did not know that there are some
sorrows to which sympathy adds only bitterness.
Summer brought another pleasure to them all. Their Sabbath journeys
over the hills to the kirk of Dunmoor were renewed; and, sitting in her
father's seat, and listening to the words of salvation from the lips of
her father's friend, Lilias grew more and more into the knowledge of
"the peace of God that passeth all understanding." Although but a child
in years, early sorrow had taught her some lessons that childhood seldom
learns. The heaviest of their sorrows did not press--upon them now.
There was not the poverty, the ceaseless toil, the constant and
sometimes vain struggle for bread. She could speak of her father and
mother calmly now, and Archie was strong and well again. And so the
look of patience which her face had worn when her aunt first saw it
lying on Archie's pillow in the dim attic room, was changing into a look
of quiet content. Yet she was still unlike other children in many
respects, though the difference was rather to be felt than seen.
Good James Muir did not speak to her as he did to the manse children or
to Archie, but wisely and gravely, as he might have spoken to her aunt.
Annie Graham, though a full year the elder, much to her own surprise,
and to the surprise of all who knew her self-reliance, found herself
deferring to the opinions of Lilias Elder. Not but that she enjoyed, as
much as any of them, the simple pleasures that were within their reach;
even little Jessie's never-absent laughter was not more full of
heartfelt mirth than hers.
But as they came to know Lilias better, they all felt that there was
"something beyond." Even little Jessie said "she was like one that was
standing on a sure place, and was not afraid;" and so she was.
One Sabbath morning, in the kirk, Lilias was startled by the sight of
familiar faces in the minister's seat, faces associated in her mind with
a bright parlour, and kind words spoken to her there. The quick smile
and whisper exchanged by the two lads told her that the Gordon boys had
recognised her too.
"That's my father's `bonny Lily,'" said Robert Gordon to young John
Graham, who was looking gravely at the boys carrying on a whispered
conference notwithstanding the reading of the psalm.
And, when the sermon was over, and Lilias, with her aunt and her
brother, stood in the kirk-yard, the boys pressed eagerly forward to
shake hands with her, and express their joy at seeing her again.
"They are Dr Gordon's sons, aunt," said Lilias, in answer to Mrs
Blair's look of surprise. "I saw them that night." And the vivid
remembrance of "that night" made her cheek grow pale.
"I hardly knew you,--you have grown so bonny," said Robert, gravely.
Lilias laughed.
"Come into the manse, and you will see your young friends without
interruption," said kind Mrs Graham. "Come, Archie."
And so they passed a pleasant hour in the manse garden. The Gordons had
come to pass their summer holidays with their cousins; and they would
often come over the hills to see her, they said. They had a very
pleasant time sitting on the grass in the shadow of the fir-trees. Even
young John Graham, as he paced up and down the walk with a book in his
hand, condescended to show a little curiosity as to the subject of their
conversation, so earnest did their tones become at last; and John Graham
was a college student, and a miracle of wisdom in his sister's eyes. He
wondered if it was all "Sabbath talk" that engrossed them so much; and
his wonder changed to serious doubts, as his little sister Jessie's
voice rose above the voices of all the rest.
But wise John was mistaken this time. The subject that engrossed them
so much was at the same moment engrossing good James Muir and his
brother elders on the other side of the kirk-yard wall. It was the
sermon and the minister they were discussing.
Jessie was eloquent on the subject. Of course there never was such a
preacher as her grandfather,--not even the great Dr Chalmers himself,
the child declared; and all the rest agreed. Even Robert Gordon, whose
taste, if the truth must be told, did not lie at all in the direction of
sermons, declared that he had not been very weary that day in the kirk.
Jessie looked a good deal scandalised at this faint praise; but it was
much from Master Robert, if she had but known all.
Then the question was started whether John would ever preach as well;
and John had to pay the usual penalty of listeners, for all agreed that
this was not to be thought of, at least, not for a long time to come.
This was the beginning of more frequent intercourse between Lilias and
Archie and the manse children. Lilias was not often with them at first,
for the "harvest-play" of the village children did not come so soon as
the town-boys' holidays, and she could seldom be prevailed upon to leave
her aunt alone in the school. But Archie's company soon became
indispensable to the lads in their daily rambles among the hills. He
had explored the country to some purpose; and not even the manse boys
knew so many places of interest as he did, and he was often their leader
in their long excursions.
It was a point of honour with Archie never to confess that he was tired
while he could stand; and it was only a fortunate chance that prevented
these long-continued wanderings from being an injury to him. They went
one day to the top of the highest hill in the neighbourhood. Archie, as
usual, led the way; and they had got well on their return, when he was
obliged to confess to himself (though not to his companions) that he
could go no farther.
They had just left the hills, and stood on the turnpike-road between
Dunmoor and Kirklands, the other lads to go to the manse, and Archie to
go home, a good two miles away yet. It seemed to him that he never
could go so far; and, only waiting till the other lads were out of
sight, he threw himself down on the grass at the roadside, utterly
exhausted. The sound of wheels startled him in a little time, and soon
John Graham, in the manse gig, made his appearance. He drew up at the
sight of Archie, and, in some surprise, asked him what ailed him.
"Nothing," said Archie, rising painfully. "We have been at the head of
the Colla Hill; and I'm afraid I'm tired: that's all."
"And that's enough, I think," said John; for the lad's limbs were
trembling under him. "Really, these lads are very inconsiderate. You
should not have let them lead you such a chase."
"It was me that led them," said Archie,--not exactly liking Master
John's tone. "And I'll soon be rested again."
But the horse's head was already turned, and John's strong arm lifted
the weary boy to the seat at his side, and he was soon safely set down
at the cottage-door. But it was some time before Archie appeared among
the boys again, so long that John, after taking his brother Davie
severely to task for his thoughtlessness, one fine morning walked over
the hills to see if Archie were really ill.
"Ill? No! What should make me ill?" But Archie looked pale and weary,
in spite of his denial. He was upon the turf seat at the end of the
house; and, sitting down beside him, John took up the book he had been
reading. It was a volume of Flavel.
"Have you read much of this?" John asked, wondering at his taste. "Do
you like it?"
"I haven't read much of it to-day; but Lilias and I read it last winter
to my aunt, and I liked it well, not so well to read to myself, though,
as some others."
"What others?" asked John.
"Oh, the History of Scotland, and the Tales of the Covenanters, and some
books of poetry that my aunt has got. But I like Flavel too. Don't
you?"
"Oh, yes," replied John, smiling, and a little confused. "To tell the
truth, I have not read much of him. Tell me what you think of him. Of
this, for instance."
And he read the quaint heading of a chapter in the book he held in his
hand.
It never came into Archie's mind that young John Graham was "just trying
him," as boys say; and, in perfect simplicity and good faith, he gave an
abstract of the chapter, with comments of his aunt's, and some of his
own upon it. It was not very clear or very complete, it is true; but it
was enough to change considerably the expression of John's face as he
listened.
This was the beginning of a long conversation. John Graham had laid out
for himself three hours of hard reading after his bracing tramp over the
hills; but it was past noon when he went in to see Mrs Blair before he
went away. He did not think the morning wasted; though in general, like
all hard students, he was a miser respecting his time. When he was
going away, he offered Archie any of his books, and said he would help
him to understand them while he stayed at home.
"That won't be long now, however," he added. "But why don't you go to
school?"
"I should like to go to Dunmoor parish school with Davie; but my aunt
thinks it's too far."
"Well, I think, after your scramble to Colla's Head, and the ten good
miles besides, that you walked the other day, you might be able to walk
to Dunmoor school. It is not far, if you were only stronger."
Oh, Archie was strong; quite strong enough for that, if only his aunt
and Lilias thought so; and maybe they might, if John would speak to them
about it.
And so it was arranged; and when John went back to college and the
Gordon boys went home, Archie found himself at David Graham's side,
under the firm and not ungentle rule of the Dunmoor parish schoolmaster.
Lilias' joy was scarcely less than his own; and the delight of
welcoming him home at night quite repaid her for his absence during the
day.
As for her, she began again the business of teaching with wonderful
cheerfulness, and went on with wonderful success. Mrs Blair's office
of schoolmistress was becoming hers only in name, she declared; for
Lilias did all that was to be done, while she sat quietly in her
armchair, knitting or sewing, only now and then administering a word of
caution or reproof to the little ones about her. The children loved
their young teacher dearly. Not one of them but would have travelled
miles to do her a pleasure; and over two or three her influence for good
was very easily seen.
When the summer and autumn work was fairly over, Elsie Ray came back
again to the school; and Elsie was a very different girl now from the
shy, awkward, ill-clad creature who had come there a stranger last year.
Naturally affectionate, as well as bright, she had from the first
attached herself to Lilias in a peculiar manner, and, to please her, she
had done her utmost to overcome her faults and improve herself in every
way. Her clothes, of her own making, were now as neat as they had been
before untidy. Her leisure time during the summer's herding had not
been misemployed, and she was fast acquiring the reputation of being the
best reader, writer, and sewer in the school; and no small pride did she
feel in her acquirements. In short, as Mrs Stirling declared, "she had
become a decent, purpose-like lass, and Lilias Elder should have the
credit of it." Of the last fact Elsie was as well persuaded as Nancy
was; and her gratitude and devotion to Lilias were in proportion. No
sacrifice would she have considered too great to give proof of her
gratitude to Lilias; and her goodwill stood her friend in good stead
before the winter was over.