“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.”