Lilias' troubles were not over yet. Even now a cloud was gathering,
little, indeed, at first, and distant, but destined to overshadow her
for many a weary month. Indeed, there were two, as Lilias sometimes
thought, while she stood watching for her brother's home-coming beneath
the rowan-tree in the glen. The way over the hills was hardly safe in
the darkness, and the days were growing short again, and Archie could
seldom get home by daylight now. She began to fear that it would be as
their aunt had more than once hinted,--that he must stay at home till
spring.
For herself, Lilias would have liked nothing half so well as a renewal
of last winter's pleasures; but she was by no means sure that Archie
would agree with her.
"He has got a taste of the school, and nothing else will content him
now. And, besides, so clever as the master says he is, it would be such
a pity to take him away just as he has well begun."
But how to help it was the question; and Lilias revolved it in her mind
so constantly that it quite depressed and wearied her at last, and a
feeling akin to despondency began to oppress her. She did not speak to
Archie of any change. He went and came, day by day, rejoicing in the
new sources of delight that his books and his school afforded, evidently
believing that his plans were settled for the winter; and Lilias would
not disturb him a day sooner than was necessary, and so she bore her
burden alone. In a little while she found that she never need have
borne it at all. The disappointment that she dreaded for Archie never
came; and this was the way it was averted.
It was Saturday afternoon,--a half-holiday in the school. The children
had gone home, and there was quietness in the cottage. Lilias had given
the last stroke of neatness to the little room. The dinner-table was
set, and they were waiting for Archie. Lilias went to the gate and
strained her eyes in the direction of the hill-path; and, with a slight
sigh of disappointment, she hurried towards the house again. A strange
voice close by her side startled her.
"You needn't spoil your eyes looking for Archie to-day, for I have given
him leave to go with Davie to the manse, and I dare say Mrs Graham
winna let him want his dinner; and I'll take mine with you. You can get
Archie any time, but it's not often that I am seen in any house but my
own. You needn't look so disappointed."
Lilias' smile quickly chased the shadow from her face as she cheerfully
invited the schoolmaster to come in; and, stooping low, he entered.
Mrs Blair had known Peter Butler all his life, and she had often
received him in a very different place from the low room into which he
passed, but never with a more kindly welcome than she gave him now. She
had none of that kind of pride which would make her shrink from a
necessary exposure of her poverty to eyes that had seen her prosperity;
and it was with no trace of embarrassment that she rose, and offered him
the armchair to rest himself in after his long walk; but he declined it
with respectful deference.
"Many thanks, Mrs Blair, ma'am," said he, seating himself on the end of
a form near the door. Placing his hat beneath it, he took from his
pocket a black silk cap, and deliberately settled it on his head.
"You'll excuse me, ma'am: I have used myself to wear this in the school,
till it wouldna be safe to go without it. At my time of life, health
mustna be trifled with, you ken."
Mrs Blair begged the master to make himself comfortable, and there was
a moment's pause.
"I have taken the liberty to give yon laddie Archie a play this
afternoon. I would like to have a few words with you concerning him, if
you have no objection."
Mrs Blair eagerly assented, and Lilias' hand was arrested in the act of
lifting the dinner from the hearth to the table. And she stood gazing
at the master with a look so entreating as slightly to discompose him.
"It's not ill I have to tell of him, lassie. You need not look so like
frightened."
Lilias set down the dish in some confusion.
"And if you'll allow me to suggest, ma'am, you'll take your dinner while
it's in season. My news will keep."
The master had dined before he left home; but, with a delicacy that
would have done honour to a man of greater pretension, he accepted Mrs
Blair's invitation as frankly as it was frankly given. A humble meal it
was, and the master's eyes grew dim, remembering other days, as,
reverently lifting his cap from his broad, bald brow, he prayed for
God's blessing on the offered mercies.
During the meal, Mr Butler talked fluently enough on many subjects; but
when the dinner was fairly over, and Mrs Blair and Lilias sat still,
evidently waiting to hear what he had to say, he seemed strangely at a
loss for words, and broke down several times in making a beginning. At
last he said:
"Well, Mrs Blair, the short and the long of it is this. I have a
favour to ask from you. You see, it's dull enough down at my house at
this time of the year, and I find it long sitting by myself when the
bairns have gone home. I have a certain solace in my books, it's true;
but I begin to think there is some sense in the wise man's declaration,
that `much study is a weariness to the flesh.' At any rate, it comes to
that at my time of life. So I wish you would spare that laddie of yours
to me for awhile, and I'll promise you that what will be for my good
will not be for his ill. That's what I have to say."
There was a moment's silence; and then Mrs Blair thanked him for his
proposal, and for the manner in which it had been made. It was very
kind in him, she said, to put the matter in that way, as though the
obligation would be on his side. But it would be a great interruption
to the quiet which she knew he valued so much, to have a lad like Archie
always coming and going about him, and she doubted whether it would be
right to accept his generous offer; though she feared the short days and
the distance by the road would keep Archie away from the school for a
few weeks at least. The master listened with great attention, and said:
"To your first remark, Mrs Blair, ma'am, with all due deference, I must
say, I put it in that light because it's the true light, and I see not
well how I could put it in any other. And as for his being an
interruption, if I should find him so at any time I would but to bid him
hold his peace or go to his bed, or I could send him over to the manse
to Davie yonder. He'll be no interruption to him, I'll warrant. And as
to his biding at home, it must by no means be. He has just got well
begun in more things than one, and there is no saying what might be the
effect of putting a stop to it all. He might not take to his books so
well again. Not that I think that, either; but it would be an awful
pity to hinder him. He'll do himself and me credit yet, if he has the
chance."
Lilias smiled at these praises of her brother, and Mrs Blair asked:
"Really and truly, Mr Butler, apart from your wish to help him for his
father's sake, do you wish for your own sake to have the boy to bide
with you for awhile?"
"Really and truly for my own sake. I consider the obligation on my
side. But just for the sake of argument, Mrs Blair, ma'am, we'll
suppose it to be otherwise. Do you mind the little house that once
stood in Pentlands Park, and how many of my mother's dark days your
presence brightened there? And do you not mind, when I was a reckless
laddie, well-nigh worsted in the battle of life, that first your father,
and then your brother, took me by the hand and warded off the sore blows
of poverty and neglect? And do you think I'm too bold in seeking an
opportunity to show that I didn't forget, though I can never repay? Is
it too great a favour for me to ask, Mrs Blair?"
The master's voice had nearly failed him more than once while he was
speaking. He was very much in earnest; and to what he had said, Mrs
Blair could have only one reply. Turning to Lilias, she said:
"Well, my dear, shall it be?"
The master had, with a few exceptions, a sort of friendly contempt for
all womankind. With regard to "lassie bairns" there was _no_ exception;
and he was by no means pleased that the answer to his question should be
referred to one of these. But Lilias' answer appeased him.
"Oh, yes,--surely, aunt. It will be much for Archie's good. And,
besides," she added, with a little hesitation, "I don't wonder that the
master wants Archie for his own sake."
"A sensible-like lassie, that," said the master to himself, looking at
her with some such curiosity as he would have looked at a strange beetle
in his garden-path, "that is wise like."
"Yes, if the master thought about Archie, as you do," said Mrs Blair.
"But have you counted the cost? It will be a sad lonely winter to you
without your brother, Lily."
Lilias considered a moment, and drew a long breath.
"But it will be so much better for him; and he will come home
sometimes."
"That he shall," said the master, "at regular times, on which you shall
agree between you, and at no other,--that you need not be troubling
yourselves needlessly about him. And he shall come in time, too, that
there need be no waste of good eyesight watching for him."
And so it was settled. But Archie was by no means so delighted with the
arrangement as Lilias had anticipated. He could hardly be persuaded
that he could not in the winter walk backwards and forwards over the
hills, as he had done in the fine days of summer and autumn. But when
he was fairly settled in his little closet in the schoolmaster's quiet
home, with a table full of books, and time to read them, and his friend
Davie coming and going at his pleasure, he settled down with great
content.
He did not miss his sister as she missed him. Poor Lilias! Many and
many a time, during the first week of their separation, she asked
herself if she had indeed counted the cost. She accused herself of
selfishness in regretting a change which was so much for his good, and
strove by attention to her duties to quiet the pain at her heart.
"I ought to be glad and thankful," said she to herself, again and
again,--"glad and thankful;" but the dull pain ached on, and the days
seemed like weeks; and when Saturday afternoon came at last, and Archie
rushed in, with a joyful shout, a few minutes before he was expected,
she surprised herself and him by a great flood of tears.
"Lilias, my child, what ails you?" said her aunt, while Archie stood
gazing at her in silent consternation.
It was some time before she found her voice to speak.
"It's nothing, aunt; indeed it's nothing, Archie. I had no thought of
crying. But I think my tears have been gathering all the week, and the
sight of you made them run over in spite of me."
"Lily," said Archie, gravely, "I won't go to the school again. You have
been wearying for me, Lily."
It had been something more than "wearying,"--that dull pain that had
ached at Lilias' heart since they parted. It was like the mother's
unappeasable yearning for her lost darling. Her cheek seemed to have
grown pale and thin even in these six days. Archie stood with one hand
thrown over her neck, while with the other he pushed back the fair hair
that had fallen on her face, and his eyes looked lovingly and gravely
into hers. The tears still ran fast over her cheeks; but she forced
back the sobs that were ready to burst out again; and in a little while
she said, with lips that quivered while they smiled:
"Nonsense, Archie! You must go to the school. I haven't wearied much:
have I, aunt? Everything has been just the same this week, except that
you didn't come home."
"A woeful exception," said her aunt to herself; but aloud she said,
"Yes; just the same. We have missed you sadly; but we couldn't think of
keeping you at home on that account. How do you like biding with the
master?"
"Oh, I liked it well, after the first night or two. I have been twice
at the manse, and Davie has been with me; and the master has more books
than I could read in years and years; and I have had a letter from John
Graham. It came with one to Davie."
And soon Lilias was listening to his history of the week's events with
as much interest as he took in giving it. She strove by her
cheerfulness to make Archie forget her reception of him. Indeed, it did
not require a very great effort to be cheerful now. Her heart had been
wonderfully lightened by the shedding of the tears that had been
gathering all the week; and she soon laughed heartily over the merry
stories he had to tell about his sworn friend Davie Graham and the
master.
But Archie did not forget. That night, as they stood by the rowan-tree,
looking down on the foaming waters beneath, he said:
"Lily, I don't believe Davie Graham's sisters love him as you love me."
"They wouldn't need. Davie Graham's not like you. Besides, they have
other brothers, and I have only you."
"Yes; that may make a difference. But I'm sure I've been more trouble
to you than brothers generally are to their sisters. I wonder you don't
tire of it, Lily."
"That's what makes me miss you so much. Oh, Archie! I thought the week
would never be done."
"It can't be right for me to bide at Dunmoor, when you miss me so much,
Lily. I ought to give up the school for awhile, I think."
But Lilias would not hear of such a thing. Stay from the school for her
sake! No, indeed. That would never do, when he needed to go so much,
and when she had been wishing for it for his sake so long! And,
besides, it would be as much for her good as his, in the end. She would
far rather have him a great scholar by-and-by than to have his company
now.
"If Aunt Janet were only well again!" she added, after a little pause;
and a shadow passed over her face as she spoke.
This was the cloud that had been gathering and darkening; and it was not
very long before that which Lilias had feared came upon her. Her aunt
grew worse and worse; and, when Christmas-time came round, she was not
able to leave her bed. Privations to which she had been little
accustomed during the greater part of her life were beginning to tell on
her now. At first she was only feeble and incapable of exertion; but
her illness soon assumed a more decided form, and a severe rheumatic
attack rendered her, for a time, quite helpless. She was always
cheerful, and strove to comfort Lilias by telling her that, though her
illness was painful, it was not dangerous, and when the spring came
round she might hope to be strong and well again. But months must pass
before then, and the heart of Lilias sickened at the thought of all her
aunt must suffer. Even Archie's absence came to seem but a small matter
in comparison with this greater trial. By every means in her power she
strove to soothe her sufferings; but, alas! it was little she could do,
and slowly the winter passed away.
"Oh, so differently from the last!" thought Lilias, many a time.
It was long a matter of earnest discussion between them whether the
school should be kept up through the winter, or not. Mr Blair was
fearful that it would be too much for the child; but, hoping day by day
to be better, and able to take her accustomed place among them, she
yielded to Lilias' entreaties, and consented that they should come for
awhile.
Lilias made a new discovery about this time. After her aunt's illness
the housekeeping affairs fell altogether into her hands; and she was
startled to find how very small the sum was that must cover their
expenses from year's end to year's end. The trifle received from the
school-children, paltry as it was, seemed quite too precious to be given
up. Her aunt's comforts were few, but they must be fewer still without
this. No: the school must be kept up, at any cost of labour and pains
to her.
"Let me just try it a while, aunt," she pleaded; "I am sure I can get on
with you to advise me; and the days will seem shorter with the bairns
coming and going."
And so her aunt yielded, though only half convinced that she did right.
There is no better promoter of cheerfulness than constant and earnest
occupation; and so Lilias found it. She had no time during the day to
think of the troubles that seemed gathering over them, and at night she
was too weary to do so. But, though weary in body, her patience and
energy never flagged. Indeed, never were so many children so easily
taught and governed before. The gentle firmness of their young teacher
wrought wonders among them. Her grave looks were punishment enough for
the most unruly, and no greater reward of good behaviour could be given
than to be permitted to go on an errand or do her some other little
favour when school was over.
But her chief dependence for help was on Elsie Ray. Her gratitude for
Lilias' kindness when she first came to the school was unbounded; and
she could not do too much to prove it. It was Elsie who brought in the
water from the well and the fuel from the heap. It was Elsie who went
far and near for anything which the varying appetite of the invalid
might crave. Lilias quite learnt to depend on her; and the day was
darker and longer than usual, that failed to bring Elsie to the school.
Mrs Stirling's visits, too, became more frequent as the winter wore
away; and there was seldom a Saturday afternoon, be it raining or
shining, that failed to bring her to the cottage. Nor was she by any
means unwelcome there. For Nancy could be very helpful, when she willed
it; and, by some strange witchcraft or other, Lilias had crept into her
murmuring, though not unkind heart. It is true that she always came and
went with the same ominous shake of the head, and the same dismal
prophecy that, "unless she was much mistaken, Mrs Blair would never set
her foot to the ground again;" but she strove in various ways to soothe
the pain of the sufferer, and her strong arms accomplished many a task
that Lilias in her weakness must have left undone. Once, in Lilias'
absence from the cottage, she collected and carried off the used linen
of the family which had been accumulating for weeks, and quite resented
the child's exclamation of surprise and gratitude when she brought them
back done up in her very best style. "She had done it to please
herself, as the most of folks do favours; and there need be no such ado
made about it. If she had thought it a trouble, she would have left it
alone."
She was never weary of suggesting new remedies for Mrs Blair's
complaint, and grumbled by the hour if each in turn had not what she
called a fair trial. Fortunately, her remedies were not of the "kill or
cure" kind. If they could do no good, they could do little harm; and
Mrs Blair was generally disposed to submit to a trial of them.
In all her intercourse with Lilias there was a singular blending of
respectful tenderness with the grumbling sourness that had become
habitual to her. The child's unfailing energy and patience were a
source of never-failing admiration to her; yet she always spoke to her
as if she thought she needed a great deal of encouragement, and not a
little reproof and advice, to keep her in the right way.
"You mustn't grumble, Lilias, my dear, that you have to bear the yoke in
your youth. I dare say you need all you're getting. Many a better
woman has had more to bear. We all have our share of trouble at one
time or another. Who knows but you may see prosperous days yet,--you
and your aunt together? Though indeed that's more than I think," she
added, with the old ominous shake of the head; "but, grumble here or
grumble there, it will make little difference in the end."
Lilias would listen sometimes with a smile, sometimes with tears in her
wistful eyes, but always with a respect which was all the more grateful
to Nancy that it was not often given by those on whom she bestowed her
advice.
But notwithstanding the kindness of friends, and (what Lilias valued
even more) the weekly visits of Archie, the afternoon walks, and the
long evening spent in talking over all that the week had brought to
each, the winter passed away slowly and heavily. To the children in the
school, Lilias always appeared in all respects the same; as indeed she
was during school-hours. But when the little ones had gone home, and
her household duties were all over, when there was no immediate call for
exertion, her strength and spirits flagged. Sitting in the dim light of
the peat fire, her weary eyes would close, and her work would fall upon
her lap. It is true, the lowest tone of her aunt's voice would awaken
her again, as indeed it would at any hour of the night; but, waking
still weary and unrefreshed, no wonder that the power to step lightly
and speak cheerfully was sometimes more than she could command. She was
always gentle and mindful of her aunt's comfort; but as the spring drew
near she grew quiet and grave, and her laugh, which had been such
pleasant music in the cottage, was seldom heard.
"You never sing now, Lily," said her aunt, one night, as Lilias was
busily but silently putting things to rights after the children had gone
home.
"Don't I?" said Lilias, standing still.
"Well, maybe not, though I had not thought about it. I am waiting for
the birds to begin again, I suppose; and that won't be long now."
But spring seemed long in coming. March passed over, and left matters
no better in the cottage. Indeed, it was the worst time of all. The
damp days and bleak winds aggravated Mrs Blair's illness, and increased
her suffering. The young lambs and calves at home needed Elsie's care,
and she could seldom come now; and Lilias' burden grew heavier every
day. Two rainy Saturdays in succession had presented Archie's coming
home; and time seemed to move on leaden wings.
"You have need of patience, Lily," said her aunt one night, as the child
seated herself on a low stool and laid her head down on the side of the
bed.
"Have I, aunt?" said she, raising herself quickly, for she thought her
aunt's words were intended to convey reproof.
"Yes; and God is giving it to you, my child. It ought to be some
comfort to you, love, that you are doing good in the weary life you are
leading. You are not living in vain, my child."
"I am quite happy, aunt," said Lilias, coming near, and speaking in a
low, wondering voice.
"Blessed with the peace _He_ gives His own through His dear Son our
Saviour: thank God for that!" said her aunt, as she returned her caress.
March passed and April too, and May came warm and beautiful, at last.
It brought the blessing so earnestly longed for by the weary Lilias,--
comparative health to her aunt. Although she was not quite well yet,
she was no longer confined to her bed; and, with some assistance, could
walk about the house, and even in the little garden, now bright with
violets and daisies. "She had aged wonderfully," Mrs Stirling said; as
indeed she had. Lilias could see that, but she had great faith in the
"bonny summer days," and thought that now their troubles were nearly at
an end.
The return of spring had not made the schoolmaster willing to part with
Archie, and he was seldom at home more than once or twice a week. But,
though Lilias still missed him, she had long ago persuaded herself that
it would be selfishness on her part to wish it otherwise. It was for
Archie's good; and that was more than enough to reconcile her to his
continued absence.
But the pleasant May days did not make Lilias her old self again. She
did not begin to sing with the birds, though she tried sometimes. The
old burden was there, and she could not. Often she accused herself of
ingratitude, and wondered what ailed her, that she could not be so
cheerful as she used to be. The feeling of weariness and depression did
not wait now till the children had gone home. Sometimes it came upon
her as she sat in the midst of them, and the hum of their voices would
die away into a dull murmur, and she would fall into a momentary
forgetfulness of time and place. Sometimes it came upon her as an
inexpressible longing for rest and quiet, and to get away from it all
for a little while.
Her spirits were unequal; and it required a daily and unceasing effort
to go about quietly, as she used to do. More than once she startled
herself and others by sudden and violent bursts of weeping, for which,
as she truly said, she could give no reason. In vain she expostulated
with herself; in vain she called herself ungrateful and capricious. The
weary weight would not be reasoned away.
At length the knowledge that she was overtired, and not so well as
usual, relieved her heart a little; but not very long. She was ill; and
that was the cause of all her wretched feelings. She was not selfish
and ungrateful.
She would be her old self again when she grew better.
Yes; but would she ever grow better? and when? and how? Never in the
school. She knew now that she had been doing too much for her
strength,--that the longing to get away from the noise and turmoil did
not arise from dislike of her work, but from inability to perform it.
And yet, what could she do even now? Her aunt was not able to take her
old place in the school. Must it be given up? They needed the small
sum it brought in as much as ever they had done, and more. Archie was
fast outgrowing the clothes so carefully preserved, and where could he
get more? And there were other things, comforts which her aunt needed,
which must be given up, unless the school could be kept on.
She could not go to service now. She could not leave her aunt. If she
could only get something to do that could be done at home. Or if she
could only be a herd-girl, like Elsie Ray, or keep the sheep of some of
the farmers, so that she might come home at night. Then she would soon
get strong, and, maybe, have the children again after the harvest. Oh,
if she only had some one to tell her what to do! The thought more than
once came into her mind to write to Dr Gordon; but she did not. He
could not advise her. He could help them in no other way than to send
them money. No: something else must be tried first. Oh, if she only
knew what to do!
It would not have solaced Lilias much to know that the very same
thoughts were hourly in the mind of her aunt. None of Mrs Blair's
friends knew the exact amount of her yearly income. None of them knew
how small the sum was that the widow's little family had to maintain
them, or imagined the straits to which they were sometimes reduced.
Mrs Blair blamed herself for not having done before what now seemed
inevitable. She ought to have asked assistance, alms she called it,
before it came to this pass with them; and yet she had done what she
thought was for the best. She had hoped that her illness would not last
long,--that when spring came all would go on as usual again.
But this could not be now. She had watched Lilias with great anxiety.
She had seen the struggle which it had sometimes cost her to get through
the days; and she knew that it could not go on long. Her own strength
came back, but slowly. She could not take Lilias' place; and the
children must go. Some change must be made, even if it involved the
necessity of Lilias' leaving her for a while. Indeed, it might have
been better, she sometimes thought, if she had never sought to keep the
child with her. It would be hard to part from her now.
Lilias, in the meantime, had come to the same resolution. The school
must be given up and she must tell her aunt and Archie; but first she
must think of something else, weeding, or herding, or going out to
service. Suddenly a new thought presented itself. It would not have
won for her much credit for wisdom in the parish, this idea of hers; but
Lilias only wondered that it had not occurred to her before.
"I'll ask Mrs Stirling's advice. If she's not down before Saturday,
I'll go up and speak to her. She'll surely know of something that I can
do."