Читать книгу The Orphans of Glen Elder - Margaret Murray Robertson - Страница 6

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YES: her prayer was heard and answered; but it was in God's way, not in hers.

When Mrs. Blair woke from her short and unrefreshing slumber, she found that the morning was far advanced. Lilias had been long astir. Breakfast was ready; and the child was now standing beside her mother, assisting her to dress. But the effort to sit up seemed too much for Mrs. Elder.

“It's no use trying, Lilias, my dear,” she said, at last, laying her aching head back on the pillow again. “I'm either too ill or too weary to rise. Thank God, it is the day of rest. I shall be better to-morrow.”

But this was not to be. Through all that long day she lay, tossing in restless wakefulness or moaning in feverish slumber. Mrs. Blair, too, worn out by her long journey and her sleepless night, seemed unable to make the slightest exertion. Lilias went from one to the other, ministering to their wants; and her loving voice and gentle touch brought comfort to their hearts, though she could not soothe their bodily pain.

“You are a kind little nurse, Lilias,” said her aunt, detaining the hand that had been laid lovingly on her. “I am sure you have the will to help us, if you only had the power.”

“Oh, I wish I could do something for you, aunt! I am afraid you are very weary. Maybe if I were to read a little to you, the time wouldn't seem so long.” And she laid her hand on her own little Bible as she spoke.

“Yes, love, read: I shall be very glad to listen.”

So she read, in her clear, childish voice, psalm after psalm, till her aunt could not but wonder at the skill with which she seemed to choose those most suitable to their circumstances. By-and-bye, after a little pause, she said:

“Someway, I like the Psalms, aunt. Do you not like them? They seem to say what we want to say so much better than we can ourselves.”

“Yes, my child; that is true. And so you like the Psalms best, do you?” said her aunt.

“Not best,—at least, not always;—only when I am weary or sad. There are some chapters in the New Testament that I like best of all. This is Archie's chapter.” And she turned to the fifteenth of Luke. “Archie thinks it is grand, this about the joy among the angels in heaven; and this, too, about the Father's love;” and she read “'But when the father saw him, he had compassion upon him, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.'”

“Archie never tires of that,” she said, smiling at her brother, who had been sitting with his eyes fixed upon her, listening as she read. “And this is the one I like best, about Mary, and Martha, and Lazarus.” And she read the eleventh chapter of John, but paused before she got to the end.

“I never like to read the rest, about their taking counsel to slay Him, so soon after they had seen all this. Sometimes I can hardly make it seem true, it is so sad. But I like the story, oh, so much!” And she read again slowly, “'Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus.'” And again, “'Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and he that liveth and believeth in me shall never die.'

“Do you not like it, aunt?”

“Yes, love; it is a fine chapter.”

“It's maybe not better than many and many a one here,” said Lilias, slowly turning over the leaves of her Bible; “but I happened on it once when I needed something to help me, and I've liked it ever since.”

“And what time was that?” asked her aunt, much interested.

“Oh, it was long ago,” answered Lilias, lowering her voice, and looking to see if her mother still slept. “It was just after father died. Mother was ill, and I thought God was sending us too much trouble; and I came upon this chapter, and it did me so much good! Not that I thought Jesus would raise up my father again, but I knew he could do greater things than that if he pleased; and I knew he had not forgotten us in our troubles, more than he had forgotten Mary and Martha, though he stayed still in the same place where he was, two whole days after they had sent for him because their brother was sick. No trouble has seemed so bad since then; and none ever will again, come what may.”

“Come what may!” Little was Lilias thinking of all that might be hidden in those words. She gradually came to know, as that night and the next day and night passed away, and the dawning of the third day found her mother no better, but rather worse. Mrs. Blair had concealed her own anxiety, for the children's sake. Believing her sister's illness to be the consequence of over-exertion, she had thought that rest and quiet would be sufficient to restore her; but these three days had made no change for the better, and, fearing the worst, she asked Lilias if she knew any doctor to whom they might apply.

“Yes; there is Dr. Gordon, who attended my father and Archie. We have not seen him for a long time, but I think I could find his house.” And, with trembling eagerness, she prepared to go out.

It rained violently, but Lilias scarcely knew it, as she ran rather than walked along the street. It was still early, and the doctor had not gone out. When the servant carried in the little girl's message, he repeated the name several times, as if to recall it.

“Mrs. Elder!—I had lost sight of her this long time. Yes, certainly I will go. Where does she live now?”

The servant replied that the child who brought the message was waiting to show him the way; and in a few minutes he was ready to go with her. Lilias, who was standing at the door, started homeward as soon as he appeared, and hurried on almost as rapidly as she came, so that the doctor had some difficulty in keeping her in sight.

“Are you sure you are not mistaking the way?” said he, as Lilias waited for him at the corner of the street, or rather the alley that led to the attic; “surely Mrs. Elder cannot be living in a place like this?”

Lilias threw back her bonnet, and now, for the first time, looked in the doctor's face. “Yes, sir, we have lived here ever since the time you used to come and see Archie.”

“Oh, ho! my Lily of the valley, this is you, is it? Well, don't cry,” he added; for his kindly voice had brought the tears to the child's eyes. “We shall have your mother quite well in a day or two again, never fear.”

But he looked grave indeed as he stood beside her, and took her burning hand in his.

“You don't think my mother will be long ill?” said Lilias, looking up anxiously into his face as he stood beside the bed.

“No, my child; I don't think she will be long ill,” said he, gravely.

And Lilias, reassured by his words, and fearing no evil, smiled almost brightly again, as she went quietly about her household work.

“You think her dying, then?” said Mrs. Blair, to whom his words conveyed a far different meaning.

“She is not dying yet; but, should her present symptoms continue long, she cannot possibly survive. She must have been exerting herself far beyond her strength, or living long without nourishing food, to have become reduced to a state so frightfully low as that in which I find her.”

“She has been doing both, I fear,” said her sister, sadly. “She has sacrificed herself. And, yet, what could she do? They have had nothing for many months between them and want, but the labour of her hands, and the few pence that poor child could earn. God help them!”

“God help them, indeed!” echoed the doctor, earnestly.

He gave her what hope he could. He said it was possible, only just possible, that she might rally. It would depend on the strength of her constitution. Nothing that he could do for her would be left undone.

“In the mean time, we must hope for the best.”

But, with so much cause to fear, it was no easy thing to hope; and to Mrs. Blair the day was a long and anxious one. Her sister seemed conscious at intervals; but for the greater part of the time she lay quite still, giving no evidence of life, save by her quick and laboured breathing. When Dr. Gordon came again, at night, there was no change for the better; and, though he did not say so, it was evident to Mrs. Blair that he anticipated the worst.

“And must she die without recovering consciousness? Can she speak no word to her children before she goes?”

“It is possible she may die without speaking again. But if she revives so much as to speak, it will be very near the end.”

Lilias had gone out on an errand, so that she did not see the doctor; and her aunt's heart grew sick at the thought of telling her that her mother must so soon die. Archie evidently had some idea of his mother's state; for, though he did not speak, he gazed anxiously into his aunt's face as she turned away from the bed.

“Poor boy! Poor, helpless child!” she murmured, stooping suddenly over him. Poor boy, indeed! He knew it all now. He asked no questions. He needed to ask none; but he hid his face in the pillow, and sobbed as if his heart would break. At length Lilias' footstep was heard on the stair, and he hushed his sobs to listen. She came up step by step, slowly and wearily; for the watching and anxiety of the last few days and nights were beginning to tell upon her.

“Well, aunt?” she said, laying down the burden she had brought up, and looking hopefully into her aunt's face. Mrs. Blair could not speak for a moment; and Lilias, startled by her grave looks, exclaimed:

“Does Dr. Gordon think my mother worse?”

“She is not much better, I fear, love,” said her aunt, drawing her towards her and holding her hands firmly in her own. Lilias gave a fearful glance into her face. The truth flashed upon her; but she put it from her in terror.

“We must have patience, aunt. She has had no time to grow better yet.”

“Yes, love: we must have patience. Whatever God shall see fit to send on us, we must not distrust him, Lilias.”

“Yes, we must have patience,” said the child, scarcely knowing what she said. She went and knelt down beside the bed, and spoke to her mother; but her voice had no power to rouse her from the heavy slumber into which she had fallen. In a little while she rose, and went quietly about arranging the things in the room. Then, with needless care, the supper was placed on the table; for none of them could taste food. Then her brother was prepared for bed; but all the time she spoke no word, and went about like one in a dream.

When she stooped to kiss her brother a good-night, the little boy clasped his arms about her neck, and wept aloud. But she did not weep; she laid her head down on the pillow beside him, gently soothing him with hand and voice; and when at last he had sobbed himself to sleep, she disengaged his arms from her neck, and, rising, placed herself on a low stool beside her mother's bed.

Mrs. Blair thought it better to leave her to herself. Indeed, what could she say to comfort her? And so the child sat a long time, gazing into her mother's face, her own giving no sign of the struggle that was going on within. At first the one thought that filled her mind was that it was impossible her mother could be going to die. It seemed too dreadful to be true; and, then, it was so sudden! Her father had been with them for months after they knew that he must die, and her mother had been quite well only three days ago. No: it could not be!

And, yet, such things had been before. She thought of a little girl, rosy and strong, who had sickened and died in three short days; and it might be so with her mother. How should she ever live without her? Oh, if she could only die too, and have done with life and its struggles! Everything was forgotten in the misery of the moment; and with a moan that revealed to her aunt something of what she was suffering, she leaned forward on the bed.

“Lily,” said a voice beside her.

Lilias started. It was the first time her mother had spoken during the day, and the child bent eagerly over her, and kissed her.

“Lily, love, read to me the twelfth of Hebrews,” said her mother, in a low, changed voice.

By a strong effort, Lilias quieted herself, and read on till she came to the eleventh verse:—“'Now no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous; but afterwards it yieldeth the peaceable fruits of righteousness to them that are exercised thereby.'”

“You believe that, Lily?” said her mother.

“Yes, mother,” said the child, in a trembling voice.

“And you'll mind it by-and-bye, darling, and comfort your brother with the words? It won't be for long, Lily. You'll soon be with us there.”

“Mother! mother!” gasped the child, losing her self-control, as she threw herself upon the bed and clasped her arms about her mother's neck. For a few minutes her frame shook with her sobs. Fearing the effect of this strong emotion on the mother, Mrs. Blair came to the bed; but she did not speak, and by a strong effort she calmed herself again.

“Lily,” said her mother, in a moment or two, “I have many things to say to you, and I have not much strength left. You must calm yourself, darling, and listen to me.”

“But, mother, you are not much worse to-night, are you?”

“God is very good to us both, my child, in giving me a little strength and a clear mind at the last. What I have to say will comfort you afterwards, Lily. I want to tell my darling what a comfort she has been to me through all my time of trouble. I have thanked God for my precious daughter many a time when I was ready to sink. Archie will never want a mother's care while he has you; and for his sake, love, you must not grieve too much for me. It will only be for a little while; and, then, think how happy we shall be.”

There was a pause.

“Will you promise, Lily?”

“Yes, mother; I promise. It will only be for a little while.”

“I do not fear to leave my darlings. God will keep them safe till we meet again.”

There was a long silence after that; and then she called her sister by name, and Mrs. Blair bent over her.

“Kiss me, Janet. God sent you to us now. Comfort—Alex's bairns.”

Again there was silence. The mother's hand moved uneasily, as if in search of something. Her sister lifted it, and laid it over her daughter's neck, and then it was at rest. Not a sound broke the stillness of the hour. They thought she slept; and she did sleep: but she never woke again. The early dawn showed the change that had passed over her face, and Lilias knew that she was motherless.

Of how the next days passed, Lilias never had a distinct remembrance. She only knew that when, on the third morning, strangers came to bear her mother away, it seemed a long, long time since she died. It seemed like looking back over years, rather than days, to recall the time when she lay with her arms clasped around her neck, and listened to her dying words.

During this time, Mrs. Blair had watched her niece with some anxiety. There was no violent bursts of grief, but there was a look of desolation on her face which it was heart-breaking to see. She was quiet and gentle through all; willing, indeed eager, to render assistance to her aunt when it was required; but as soon as she was free again she returned to the low stool beside the bed on which her mother lay.

The time was passed by Archie in alternate fits of violent weeping and depression almost amounting to stupor. Lilias tried hard to perform the promise made to her dying mother. She put aside her own sorrow to soothe his. She read to him; she sang to him; and when he would listen to neither reading nor singing, she would murmur such words of comfort as her mother had spoken to her; and their burden always was, “They are so happy now. They have found such rest and peace; and it will be but a little while, and then we shall be with them there.”

And then, when he grew quiet and listened to her, she would try to meet his wistful looks with a smile; but when he was quiet or asleep, she always returned to the place beside her dead mother.

But they bore her mother away at last; and then for a moment Lilias's strength and courage forsook her. The cry of her desolate heart would no longer be hushed.

“Oh, mother! mother!”

Even the sound of her brother's weeping had not power, for a time, to recall her from the indulgence of her grief.

On the morning of her sister's death, Mrs. Blair had written to a friend, asking him to make arrangements for conveying the orphans to her humble home; and they were to leave the town on the day succeeding that of the funeral. Little was left to be done. A few articles of furniture were to be disposed of, a few trifles, heirlooms in the family for several generations, were to be taken with them; and it was with a feeling of relief that Mrs. Blair welcomed the honest carrier of Kirklands who was on the morrow to convey them away from the unhealthy town to the free fresh air of their native hills. Only one thing more remained to be done, and the afternoon was nearly over before Mrs. Blair found courage to speak of it.

“Lilias, if you are not too weary, I should like you to go out for me to Dr. Gordon's, love, if it will not be too much for you.”

“I'm not weary, aunt. I'll go, if you wish.”

But she grew very pale, remembering the last time she had gone there.

“Lilias,” said her aunt, drawing her towards her, and kissing her fondly, “you have been my own brave, patient lassie to-day. You have not forgotten your mother's words?”

“Oh, aunt, I wish to be patient, indeed I do. But I fear I am not really patient at heart.” And she wept now as though her heart would break.

Her aunt let her weep freely for a few minutes, and then she said:

“It's not wrong for you to weep for your mother, Lilias; you must do that. But you know 'He doth not afflict willingly;' and you can trust his love, though you cannot see why this great sorrow has been sent upon you. You can say, 'Thy will, not mine, be done.'”

“I am trying, Aunt Janet,” said Lilias, looking up with a wavering smile on her lips, almost sadder to see than tears, as her aunt could not help thinking. She said no more, but kissed her and let her go.

It was with a grave face and slow step that Lilias took her way to Dr. Gordon's house. When she was fairly in the street, a wild desire seized her to go to the place where her father and mother lay, and she took a few rapid steps in that direction. It was not in the narrow kirk-yard seen from their window, but quite away in another part of the town, nearer to the place where they used to live; and Lilias paused before she had gone far, for she doubted if it would be right to venture down at that hour. She stood still a moment.

“I shall not see them. They are not there. I must have patience.” And she turned slowly back again.

It was growing dark in the room in which, for a few minutes, she waited for Dr. Gordon, and through the half-open door she caught a glimpse of a pleasant parlour, echoing with the music of voices. Happy, cheerful voices they were; but Lilias' heart grew sadder as she listened, and when at last Dr. Gordon appeared, it was with difficulty that she could restrain her tears.

Speaking very fast, as if she were afraid that her voice would fail her, she said, “We are going away, sir, to-morrow with my aunt, Mrs. Blair, and she sent me with this to you.”

The doctor took what the child held towards him, but instantly replaced it in her hands.

“And so that was your aunt I saw the other day?” said he.

“Yes; Aunt Janet Blair, our father's sister. We are going to live with her in the country, and it's far away; and, if you please, sir, would you come and see Archie again? My aunt didn't bid me ask you; but it would be such a comfort if you would.” And she looked up beseechingly into his face.

“Yes, surely, with a good will,” said Dr. Gordon, heartily; “and to-night, too, it must be, if you are going to-morrow. No, no! my lassie,” he added, as Lilias made another attempt to place the money in his hand. “I have not yet eaten orphans' bread, and I'm not going to begin now.”

“But my aunt sent it, sir; and she was not always poor, and I think she would like you to take it.”

His only answer was to press her fingers more closely over the little packet of money, as he drew her towards the parlour-door.

“I will go with you by-and-bye; but first you must come in and see my boys. Mrs. Gordon wants to see you, too,” said he.

The room into which they passed was a large and pleasant one, and Lilias never forgot it, nor the kind words which were spoken to her there. The bright yet softened light of a lamp made all parts of it visible. Over the mantelpiece was a large mirror, and there were heavy crimson curtains on the windows, and many pictures on the walls. On a low chair, near the fire, sat a lady with a boy in her arms, and several other children were playing about the room. They became quiet as their father entered, and gazed with some curiosity on the stranger.

“This is my little friend, Lilias Elder,” said the doctor. “It is fortunate she came to-night. We might not have found her to-morrow.”

Mrs. Gordon received Lilias very kindly, speaking to her in a voice so tender that, in spite of herself, it brought the tears to her eyes. Noticing her emotion, Mrs. Gordon did not speak to her again for a moment, and, the children gathering round her, she quickly recovered herself in receiving and returning their greetings.

When tea was fairly over, and the boys had gone to bed, a long conversation took place between Lilias and her friends. Dr. Gordon was the father of six sons; but he had no daughter, and his heart overflowed with love and pity for the orphan girl. Through all the long illness of her father and brother, she had been an object of interest to the kind physician. Her never-wearying attention to both, and the evident comfort and support she had been to her mother in all her trials, had filled him with admiration and pleasure. For months he had lost sight of the family, and various circumstances had occurred to withdraw his thoughts from the subject; but now that he had found Lilias an orphan and in want, he longed to take her to his heart and home.

“I ought, perhaps, to have spoken first to your aunt,—your natural guardian;—but I think she will be willing to give you up to us. We will try and make you happy, my child.”

Lilias shed many grateful tears, as their plans were unfolded to her; but to all their kind words she had but one answer. It could not be. She could never leave Archie. He was ill and lame, and had no one else; and she had promised her mother always to take care of him.

It was in vain that they assured her that his health and comfort should be cared for; that, though for the present they might be separated, he would still be her brother, and that her change of circumstances would be as beneficial to him as to her in the end. They urged her to consider, and not to decide hastily. They would wait, weeks or months, till her brother was better, so that she could leave him with her aunt.

But no. It could not be. It would seem like forsaking him. She had promised their mother always to take care for him. Nothing could make it right to break that promise.

“Indeed you must not be grieved, or think me ungrateful,” she pleaded. “It would not be right. It would break Archie's heart to part from me now.”

And so they let her go. Dr. Gordon did not speak to her, but he held her hand firmly as they passed down the street. Lilias thought he was angry at her decision; but he was not angry. He was only grieved. When they reached the door, she lingered.

“Indeed, sir, I could not do any other way; and, if you please, don't tell my aunt all you have said to me to-night: she might think I would be sorry afterwards, and I wish you wouldn't tell her.”

“Well, child, I will not tell her, since it is your wish. But remember, if any trouble comes upon you, you must write and let me know.” And Lilias joyfully assented to the condition.

The doctor's visit comforted them all greatly. Archie's case he thought by no means so hopeless as he had once thought it. True, he might still be lame; but he might be strong and healthy for all that. The fresh air of the hills would, he believed, work wonders for him: so he bade him take heart; and the poor lad's pale face brightened as he said it.

To Mrs. Blair he spoke of her brother in terms of respect and affection that won her confidence at once; and when he earnestly entreated her to consider him as a friend to the children, and to apply to him if trouble should overtake them, she promised to do so, without hesitation or reserve.

When he bade “good-bye” to Lilias, he took her face between his hands and kissed her many times on lip and brow, calling her a firm little thing, though she seemed so gentle; and then he prayed, “God bless her,” and they were left alone.