The Orphans of Glen Elder Part 7

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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.s 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, pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d that pa.s.seth 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 a.s.sociated 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 pa.s.sed a pleasant hour in the manse garden. The Gordons had come to pa.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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.