Chapter Six.
Clouds with Silver Linings.
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.”