Mrs Stirling's cottage stood not far from the high-road that leads to
Dunmoor, at the distance of a mile and a half from Kirklands. It was
Nancy's own, and though humble and small, it was yet a very comfortable
abode; for her reputation for neatness and order was as well established
as her reputation for grumbling. There were no evidences of a refined
taste about the place; but perfect order prevailed. There was not a
weed in the garden without, nor a speck in the house within. Every
article made of wood was as white as soap and sand or as bright as
turpentine and wax and much rubbing could make it; and every piece of
metal was dazzling to behold.
There were some relics of former grandeur, too; for Mrs Stirling had
not always lived in so humble a home. Her husband had been prosperous
in a small way, but the property he left had been sadly mismanaged after
his death, or there would have been a larger portion for his widow. But
she had enough to supply her simple wants; and there were those among
her neighbours so uncharitable as to say that she enjoyed the
opportunity for murmuring which its loss afforded, more than she could
have enjoyed the possession of twice her means.
"Mrs Stirling might be as happy as the day is long, with nobody to
trouble her from one year's end to the other," was the frequent remark
of many a toil-worn mother, fighting with poverty and cares, in the
midst of many children. Yet none of them would have changed her life of
care for Nancy's solitary comfort. Not that Nancy did not enjoy life in
her way. She enjoyed greatly putting things to rights and keeping
things in order. She enjoyed her garden and her neighbours'
good-natured envy on account of its superiority to their own. And, much
more than people supposed, she enjoyed doing a good turn to any one who
really needed it. It is true that her favours were, as a general thing,
conferred ungraciously; but even those who had the least patience with
her infirmities of temper availed themselves of her good offices,
acknowledging that, after all, "her bark was worse than her bite."
During the last few months of their intercourse, Lilias had seen
comparatively little of Mrs Stirling's characteristic ungraciousness,
and she felt very grateful to her for her many kindnesses during the
winter. Unconsciously to herself, in seeking her advice she was making
the return which her friend could best appreciate.
Mrs Stirling was standing at the door, with her water-bucket in her
hand, as Lilias came in sight that Saturday afternoon.
"Eh! yon's Lilias Elder coming up the hill. What can bring her here? I
don't know the day when I have seen her so far from home. Eh, but she's
a bonny, genteel little lassie! There's no doubt of that."
It could not have been her apparel that called forth Mrs Stirling's
audible acknowledgment of Lilias' gentility; for her black frock was
faded and scant, and far too short, though the last tuck had been let
down in the skirt; and her little straw bonnet was not of this nor of
last year's fashion. But Nancy's declaration was not a mistake, for all
these disadvantages. Her greeting was characteristic.
"What made you come up the hill at that pace, you thoughtless lassie?
Anybody to see you might think you had breath enough and to spare; and,
if I'm not mistaken, you need it all."
Lilias laughed as she shook hands, and then sat down wearily on the
door-step.
"Ah, sit down and rest yourself. You'll be going to meet your brother,
or, maybe, to take your tea at the manse?" said Mrs Stirling,
inquiringly.
"No: Archie's not coming home till the evening. He's going to Broyra
with Davie Graham. I'm going no farther to-day. I came to see you,
Mrs Stirling. I want you to advise me."
Nancy would not acknowledge to herself, and certainly she would not
acknowledge to Lilias, that she was a good deal surprised and flattered
by this announcement; and she merely said:
"Well, sit still and rest yourself first. I'm going down to the burn to
get a drop of soft water to make my tea. It makes it best. Sit still
and rest; for you look weary."
Weary she was, too weary even to take in the lovely scene before her,
the hills and valleys in their fresh May garments. Far away on the
dusty highway a traveller was approaching; and her eyes fastened
themselves mechanically upon him. Sometimes he lingered and looked back
over the way he had come, and then hurried on, as though his business
would not brook delay. Still watching him as he advanced, Lilias idly
wondered whence he came, and whither he was going, and whether it was
hope or fear that urged him to such speed.
Then she thought of the many travellers on the highway of life, weary
and ready to faint with the journey; and, closing her eyes, she strove
to send a thought over her own uncertain future. She could see only a
little way before her. The school must be given up; but what was to
come after, she could not tell. She could think of no plan to bring
about what she most wished--the power to do something and yet stay at
home with her aunt. Change and separation must come, and she could not
look beyond these; and then she sighed, as she had done many a time
before.
"Oh, if I were only strong and well again!" So occupied was she with
her thoughts that she had not noticed the return of Mrs Stirling from
the brook, and was only made aware of it when she put a cut-glass goblet
filled with water in her hand. A very beautiful goblet it was, no doubt
equal to the one for which the Roman emperor, in the story, paid a small
fortune; and you may be sure it was a great occasion in Mrs Stirling's
eyes that brought it from the cupboard in the corner. No lips save
those of the minister had touched the brim for many a month.
But Lilias was too much occupied with her own thoughts to notice the
unwonted honour; and, strange to say, the slight was not resented.
Placing the glass in Lilias's hand, Mrs Stirling went into the house
again.
As Lilias raised it to her lips, her eyes fell again upon the
approaching stranger toiling along the dusty road, and her hand was
arrested. He had again slackened his pace, and his face was turned full
upon Lilias as he drew near. Upon it care or grief, or it might be
crime, had left deep traces. Now it wore a wild and anxious look that
startled Lilias, as, instead of passing along the high-road, he rapidly
came up the garden-path towards her.
"Can you tell me if I am on the high-road to Kirklands?" he asked, as he
drew near.
"Yes; go straight on. It is not much more than a mile from this place."
He did not turn to go when she had answered him, but gazed for a moment
earnestly into her face, and then said:
"Perhaps you can tell me--But no: I will not ask. I shall know the
worst soon enough."
The look of pain deepened in his face, and his very lips grew pale as he
spoke.
"You are ill!" exclaimed Lilias, eagerly offering him the water she held
in her hand. He drank a little, and, giving back the glass, thanked her
and went away. But before he had gone far he turned again, and, coming
to Lilias, said in a low, hoarse voice:
"Child, I see the look of heaven's peace on your face. Your wish must
bring good to one like me. Bid me God-speed."
"God speed you!" said Lilias, reverently, and wondering much. "And God
avert the evil that you dread!"
She watched while he continued in sight, forgetting, for the time, her
own troubles in pity for his.
"There are so many troubles in life," she thought; "and each one's own
seems worst to bear. When will it all end?"
Poor, drooping Lily! She had sat so long in the shadow of care that she
was in danger of forgetting that there were lightsome places on the
earth; and "When will it end?" came often to her lips now. Not that she
was growing impatient under it; but she felt herself so weak to do or to
endure.
"If I only were strong and well again! If God would only make me well
again, and show me what to do!"
Mrs Stirling's voice startled her at last.
"Come into the house, Lilias, my dear. There's a cold wind creeping
round the hill, and the ground is damp yet. You mustn't sit longer
there."
She placed a seat for her in the bright little kitchen.
"I won't put you into the parlour, for a fire's pleasant yet, May though
it be. Sit down here, and I'll be through with my baking in a few
minutes."
The kettle was already singing on the hearth, and fresh cakes were
toasting at the fire. After the usual Saturday tidying-up, the room was
"like a new pin;" and Lilias's eyes expressed her admiration as she
looked, about her. Nancy hastened her work and finished it, and, as she
seated herself on the other side of the hearth, she said:
"Well, my dear, what were you thinking to ask me?"
In a few words Lilias told her all her trouble: how, though the spring
had come, her aunt was by no means well yet, nor able to take charge of
the school again; how she sometimes felt she was growing ill herself, at
least she was sometimes so weary that she feared she could not go on
long. Indeed, she tried not to be weary, but she could not help it.
The feeling would come upon her, and then she grew dazed and stupid
among the children; and she must try and get something else to do. This
was what she wanted to be advised about.
By a strong effort, in her capacity of adviser, Nancy was able to keep
back the words that came to the tip of her tongue:--"I knew it. Anybody
might have seen the upshot. To put a lassie like that to do the work of
a strong woman! What could one expect?"
She did not speak aloud, however, but rose and mended the fire under the
tea-kettle, asking, as she sat down again:
"And what are you thinking of doing, my dear?"
"It's not that I'm really ill," continued Lilias, eagerly. "I think
it's because I have been within doors so much. If I could get something
to do in the open air, I should soon be as well as ever again. I can't
go to service now, because I must stop at home with my aunt at night.
She can't be left. But I thought if I could be a herd-girl like Elsie
Ray, or get weeding to do, or light field-work, or something--" And she
looked so eagerly and so wistfully that Nancy was fain to betake herself
to mending the fire again. For there was a strange, remorseful feeling
stirring not unkindly at Nancy's heart. To use her own words, she "had
taken just wonderfully to this old-fashioned child." Her patience, her
energy, her unselfishness, her devotion to her aunt, had ever excited
her admiration and respect. But that there was "a good thick layer of
pride" for all these good qualities to rest upon, Nancy never doubted.
"And why not? Who has better right? The lassie is bonny and wise, and
has good blood and a good name. Few have so much to be proud of. And
if Mrs Blair thinks it's more becoming in her brother's daughter to
teach children the catechism than to go out to common service, who can
blame her that mind her youth and middle age?"
Indeed, it had always been a matter of congratulation to Mrs Stirling
that this "leaven of pride" prevented Lilias's absolute perfection; but
now, to see "that delicate lassie, so bonny and gentle, more fit for the
manse parlour or the drawing-room at Pentlands than any other place,"--
to see her so utterly unmindful of pride or station, wishing so eagerly,
for the sake of those she loved, to become a herd-girl or a
field-labourer, quite disarranged all Nancy's ideas. By another great
effort, she checked the expression of her feelings, and asked:
"And what does your aunt say to all this?"
"Oh, I have said nothing to her yet. It would only trouble her; and if
I can get nothing else to do, I must keep the children till the
`harvest-play' comes. That won't be so very long now."
"But, dear me, lassie! it must be that you have awful little to live on,
if the few pence you could earn would make a difference," said Nancy,
forgetting, in her excitement, her resolution to say nothing rashly.
"Surely it's not needful that you should slave yourself that way."
"My aunt would not like me to speak about it. But I ought to do all I
can; and I would like herding best."
Nancy's patience was ebbing fast.
"Well, lass, you've sought advice from me, and you shall get it. You're
just as fit for herding as you are for breaking stones. Now, just be
quiet, my dear. What do you ken about herding, but what you have learnt
beneath Elsie Ray's plaid on a summer's afternoon? And what good could
you do your aunt,--away before four in the morning, and not home till
dark at night, as you would need to be?"
The last stroke told.
"I could do little, indeed," thought Lilias; but she could not speak,
and soon Nancy said:
"As for light field-labour, if such a thing was to be found in the
countryside, which is not my thought, your aunt would never hear of such
a thing. Field-labourers canna choose their company; and they are but a
rough set at best. Weeding might do better. If you could have got into
the Pentlands gardens, now. But, dear me! It just shows that there's
none exempt from trouble, be they high or be they low. Folk say the
Laird o' Pentlands is in sore trouble, and the sins of the father are to
be visited on the children. The Lady of Pentlands and her bairns are
going to foreign parts, where they needn't think shame to be kenned as
puir folk. There will be little done in the Pentlands gardens this
while, I doubt. There's Broyra, but that is a good five miles away: you
could never go there and come back at night."
"But surely there's something that I can do?" said Lilias, entreatingly.
"Yes, there's just one thing you can do. You can have patience, and sit
still, and see what will come out of this. If I were you, and you were
me, you could, I don't doubt, give me many a fine precept and promise
from the Scriptures to that effect. So just take them to yourself, and
bide still a while, till you see."
"I'll have to go on with the school yet," said Lilias, quietly.
"No, no, my lass: you'll do no such thing as that, unless you're tired
of your life. You have been at that work over-long already, or I'm
mistaken. Go into the house and look in the glass. Your face will
never be paler than it is at this moment, Lilias Elder, my dear."
"I'm tired," said Lilias, faintly, her courage quite forsaking her, and
the tears, long kept back, finding their way down her cheeks.
"Tired! I'll warrant you're tired; and me, like an old fool, talking
away here, when the tea should have been ready long since." And Nancy
dashed into her preparations with great energy. The tea was made in the
little black teapot, as usual; but it was the best tray, and Nancy's
exquisite china, that were laid on the mahogany stand brought from the
parlour for the occasion; for Nancy seemed determined to do her great
honour. By a strong effort, Lilias checked her tears after the first
gush, and sat watching the movements and listening to the rather
unconnected remarks of her hostess.
"It's not often they're taken down, except to wash," she said, as with a
snowy napkin she dusted the fairy-like cream-pot. "There's but few folk
of consideration coming to see the like of me. Young Mr Crawford
doesn't seem to think that I belong to him,--maybe because I go so often
to Dunmoor kirk. He hasn't darkened my door but once yet, and he's not
like to do it now. They say he's to be married to one of Fivie's
daughters; and I mind Fivie a poor herd-laddie. Eh me! but the Lord
brings down one and puts up another! To think of the Lady of Pentlands
having to leave yon bonny place! Who would have thought it? This is
truly a changeful scene. Folk must have their share of trouble at one
time or other of their lives. There was never a truer word said than
that."
"Yes," said Lilias, softly: "it is called a pilgrimage,--a race,--a
warfare."
Nancy caught the words.
"Ay, that's a good child, applying the Scripture, as you ought to do.
But you can do that at your leisure, you know. Sit by the table and
take your tea. I dare say you need it."
And indeed Lilias, faint and weary, did need it. She thought she could
not swallow a crumb; but she was mistaken. The tea was delicious; for
Mrs Stirling was a judge of tea, and would tolerate no inferior
beverage.
"I'm willing to pay for the best; and the best I must have," was the
remark that generally followed her brief but emphatic grace before meat;
and it was not omitted this time. "It will do you good, Lilias, my
dear."
And it did do her good. The honey and cakes were beyond praise, and
Lilias ate and was refreshed. When the tea was over, Mrs Stirling
rather abruptly introduced the former subject of conversation.
"And what were you going to do with your brother when you made your fine
plans for the summer?" she asked.
"Archie's at the school, you know," answered Lilias, shrinking rather
from Nancy's tone and manner than from her words.
"Yes; he's at the school just now. But he wasn't going to stop at the
school, surely, when you went to the herding?"
"Oh yes; he is far better at the school."
"Ay, he's better at the school than playing. But wherefore should not
he go to the weeding or the herding as well as you?"
"Archie! Why, he's but a child! What could he do?"
"And what are you but a child?" asked Nancy, smiling. "I'm thinking
there is little over the twelve months between you."
"But Archie never was strong. It would never do to expose him to all
kinds of weather or to fatigue. Don't you mind such a cripple as he was
when we came here? You used to think he wouldn't live long. Don't you
mind?"
"Yes, I mind; but he did live, and thrive too; and he's the most
life-like of the two to-day, I'm thinking. Fatigue, indeed! and he
ranging over the hills with that daft laddie Davie Graham, and playing
at the ball by the hour together! What should ail him, I wonder?"
"But even if Archie were strong and well, and could gain far more than I
can, it would yet be far better for him to be at the school. A man can
do so little in the world if he has no education; and now is Archie's
time to get it."
"Well, it may be. And when's your time coming?" asked Nancy, drily.
"Oh, it is quite different with me," said Lilias, with a feeble attempt
at a laugh. "A woman can slip through the world quietly, you know. I
shan't need learning as Archie will. And, besides, I can do a great
many things; and I can learn though I don't go to the school."
"Learn, indeed! and slip through the world quietly!" exclaimed Mrs
Stirling, with an expression of mingled pity and contempt. "These may
be your doctrines, but they're not mine. But it's easy seen what will
be the upshot of this. It's just your aunt and your father over again.
She would have laid her head beneath Alex Elder's feet, if it would have
pleasured him; and you are none behind her. Such ways are neither for
your good nor his. There are plenty of folk that'll say to-day that
your father would have been a stronger man if he hadn't been so much
spared as a laddie."
"If Archie grows up to be such a man as my father was, I shall have no
more to wish for him!" exclaimed Lilias, rising, with more of spirit in
her voice and manner than Mrs Stirling had ever witnessed there before.
"Eh, sirs! did you ever hear the like of that in all your born days?"
(lifting her hands as if appealing to an invisible audience). "As
though I would say a word to make light of her father! It's well-known
there were few left like him in the countryside when he went away. And
for her to put herself in such a passion! Not that I'm caring, Lilias,
my dear. I think it has done you good. I haven't seen you with such a
colour in your face this good while. But it ill becomes you to be
offended with the like of me."
"I'm not angry. I didn't mean to be angry," said Lilias, meekly enough
now; "but I can't bear to think you should suppose I would do anything
that is not for Archie's good. I'm sure I wish to do what is right."
"I'm as sure of that as you are," said Nancy; "but Lilias, my dear, you
must mind that it's not the sapling that has the closest shelter that
grows to be the strongest tree. With you always to think and do for
him, your brother would never learn to think and do for himself. It is
not real kindness to think first of him. You must let him bear his
share of the burden."
"But he's such a child," said Lilias; "and he was never strong,
besides."
"Now, only hear her!" exclaimed Nancy, again appealing to an invisible
audience. "You would think, to hear her speak, she was three-score at
least. Lilias Elder, hear what I'm saying to you. You are just taking
the best way to ruin this brother of yours, with your petting. All the
care that you are lavishing on him now, he'll claim as his right before
long, and think himself well worthy of it, too. Do you not wonder
sometimes, that he is so blithe-like, when you have so much to make you
weary? I doubt the laddie is overfull of himself."
"You are wrong, Mrs Stirling!" exclaimed Lilias, the indignant colour
again flushing her face. "Archie is not full of himself. He would do
anything for my aunt or me. And why should he not be blithe? I'm
blithe, too, when he is at home; and, besides, he doesna know all."
The thought of what that "all" was--the struggle, the exhaustion, the
forced cheerfulness--made her cheek grow pale; and she sat down again,
saying to herself that Nancy was right, and that, for a while at least,
she must rest.
"No; and he'll never ken as much as is for his good, if it depends on
you. But he'll hear something ere he's many days older."
"Mrs Stirling," said Lilias, rising, and speaking very quietly now,
"you must not meddle between me and my brother. He is all I have got;
and I know him best. He never was meant for a herd-boy or a
field-labourer. He must bide at the school; and he'll soon be fit for
something better; and can you not see that will be as much for my good
as his? I must just have patience and wait; and you are not to think
ill of Archie."
"Me think ill of him! No, no; I think he's a fine laddie, as his father
was before him, and that makes it all the more a pity that he should be
spoiled. But if you'll promise to be a good bairn, and have patience
till you are rested and quite strong again, and say no more about your
fine plans till then, I'll neither make nor meddle between you. Must
you go? Well, wait till I cover the fire with a wet peat, and I'll go
down the brae with you. I dare say you are all right; your aunt will be
wearying for you."
As Nancy went bustling about, Lilias seated herself again upon the
door-step. The scene was changed since she sat there before; but it was
not less lovely with the long shadows upon it than it was beneath the
bright sunshine. It was very sweet and peaceful. The never-silent
brook babbled on closely by, but all other sounds seemed to come from a
distance. The delicate fringes of young birches waved to and fro with a
gentle, beckoning motion; but not a rustle nor a sigh was heard.
Yes, it was very sweet and peaceful; and as she let her eyes wander over
the scene, Lilias had a vague feeling of guilt upon her in being so out
of tune with it all. Even in the days when she and Archie used to sit
waiting, waiting for their weary mother it had not been so bad. She
wondered why everything seemed so changed to her.
"I suppose it is because I'm not very well. I mind how weary and
restless Archie used to be. I must have patience till I grow stronger.
And maybe something will happen that I'm not thinking about, just as
Aunt Janet came to us then. There are plenty of ways beyond my
planning; and the Lord has not forgotten us, I'm sure of that. I must
just wait. There is nothing else I can do. There! I won't let another
tear come to-night, if I can help it."
She did her best to help it, for Mrs Stirling came bustling out again,
and they set off down the brae. She had leisure to help it, too; for
from the moment the great door-key was hidden in the thatch, till they
paused beside the stepping-stones, she did not need to speak a word.
Nancy had all the talk to herself, and rambled on from one thing to
another, never pausing for an answer, till they stood beside the brook.
Here Nancy was to turn back.
"And now, Lilias, my dear, you'll mind what I have been saying to you,
and that you have promised to have patience? It winna be easy. You
have ay been doing for your aunt and your brother; and the more you had
to do the better you liked it. But it's one thing to do, and it's
another thing to sit with your hands tied and see them needing the help
you canna give. I doubt you may have a sorer heart to carry about with
you than you have kenned of yet. No, that I'm feared for you in the
end. And, though it's no pleasant thing to ask favours, I have that
faith in you that I would come to you, and wouldna fear to be denied. I
ken you would have more pleasure in giving than in withholding; and I
would take a gift from you as freely as I ken it would be freely given."
She paused a moment, and Lilias tried to say that indeed she might trust
her, for it would give her more pleasure than she had words to tell, to
be able to do anything for so kind a friend.
"As to that, we'll say nothing," said Nancy, drily. But suddenly,
changing her tone and manner, she added, "What I have to say is this.
You'll not refuse to me what I wouldna refuse to you, you that are far
wiser and better than I am, or ever expect to be? What's the use of
having friends if you canna offer them a helping hand in their time of
need? And mind, I'm no giving it," she added, opening her hands and
showing three golden sovereigns. "There's no fear but I'll get them
back with interest. There's nine-and-twenty more where these came from,
in the china teapot in the press; though that's neither here nor there.
And, Lilias, my dear, no soul need ever know." The last words were
spoken beseechingly.
Lilias did not refuse the gift in words. She had no words at her
command. But she shut Nancy's fingers back upon the gold, and, as she
did so, she stooped and touched the brown wrinkled hand with her lips.
"Indeed, it is not pride," she said, at last. "You must not think it's
pride. But I am only a child; and it is my aunt who must accept and
thank you for your kindness."
Nancy's face was a sight to see. At first she could have been angry;
but her look changed and softened strangely at the touch of Lilias's
lips upon her hand.
"My dear," said she gently, "it's easy to say `my aunt,' but it is you
who have borne the burden for her this while, poor helpless body!"
"Yes," said Lilias, eagerly. "Just because she is helpless, we must
consider her the more; and she might not be pleased at my speaking to
you first. But if we really need it, we will come to you; for you are a
true friend. And you won't be angry?" she added, wistfully, as she held
out her hand for good-bye.
"Angry with you! My little gentle lammie!"
Her tones, so unlike Nancy's usually sharp accents, brought back the
child's tears with a rush, and she turned and ran away. Nancy stood
watching her as she went over the stepping-stones and up the bank, and
she tried to walk quietly on. But as soon as she was out of sight she
ran swiftly away, that she might find a hiding-place where she could cry
her tears out without danger of being seen.
"It's the clearing-shower, I think; and I must get it over before I go
home. If Archie were to see me crying, I should have to tell him all;
and I'm sure I don't know what would happen then."
As the thought passed through her mind, a footstep sounded on the rocky
pathway, and her heart leaped up at the sound of her brother's voice.
In a moment he was close beside her. She might have touched him with
her outstretched hand. But the last drops of the clearing-shower were
still falling.
"And I'm not going to spoil his pleasant Sabbath with my tears," she
said to herself. So she lay still on the brown heather, quite unseen in
the deepening gloaming.
"Lily!" cried Archie, pausing to listen--"Lily!" He grasped a branch of
the rowan-tree, and swung himself down into the torrent's bed. "Lily!
Are you here, Lily?"
She listened till the sound of his footsteps died away, and then swung
herself down as he had done. Dipping her handkerchief into the water of
the burn, she said to herself, as she wiped the tear-stains from her
face, "I'll be all the brighter to-morrow for this summer shower." And
she laughed softly to herself as she followed the sound of her brother's
voice echoing back through the glen.