When Christie was complaining of the small vexations and unvaried
sameness of her daily life, she little dreamed how near at hand was the
time when Effie's words were to prove true. Before the frost came to
hush the pleasant murmur of the brook, or the snow had hidden alike the
turf seat and the sear leaves of the birch-tree beside it, Christie was
looking back over the stolen moments passed there on summer afternoons,
with feelings with which were mingled wonder and pain and self-reproach.
For the shadow of a coming sorrow was over their household. Day by day
they seemed to be drawing nearer to a change which all saw, but which
none had courage to name. The neighbours came and went, and spoke
hopefully to the awed and anxious children; but they were grave, and
said to one another that the poor young Redferns would soon be
fatherless.
The harvest was quite over, and the assistance of the girls was no
longer necessary out-of-doors, when one day Mr Redfern went alone to
bring home the last load of turnips from a distant field; and when his
children saw his face again it was like the face of the dead. Whether
he had been thrown from the cart he had been driving, or whether he had
fallen in some sort of fit, they could not tell. Even the doctor, who
had been sent for from the next town, could not account for the state of
stupor in which he found him. Two days of painful suspense passed; and
then, contrary to the expectation of all, Mr Redfern opened his eyes
and spoke. For a few days he seemed to revive so rapidly that the
doctor had hopes of his entire recovery. It would be a work of time, he
said. His back had been much injured by the fall. He could never
expect to be so strong as he had been before; but he did not doubt that
a few weeks would restore him to a good degree of health and strength
again. And so they all took courage.
Effie, who had been summoned home, would fain have remained for the
winter; but this did not seem best. The surplus of the harvest, over
which she and Christie had so lately rejoiced, would be required to pay
the wages of the man who must for the winter take their father's place;
and Effie's increased salary would be of more value than ever to the
family. With a face which she strove to make cheerful for the sake of
those she left behind, she went away; but her heart was heavy, and when
she kissed Christie a good-bye and bade her keep her courage up for the
sake of all, she could hardly restrain her tears till the words were
spoken.
Those who were left at home needed all the cheerfulness they could
gather from each other; for it was a very dreary winter that lay before
them. The passing weeks did not bring to Mr Redfern the health and
strength so confidently promised by the doctor and so earnestly hoped
for by his children. In her brief visits, Effie could see little change
in him from week to week--certainly none for the better. He gradually
came to suffer less, and was always cheerful and patient; but the times
when he could be relieved from the weariness of his bed by changing his
position to the arm-chair were briefer and at longer intervals.
And, in the meantime, another cloud was gathering over them. Aunt
Elsie's rheumatism, which during the autumn had given her much trouble
from time to time, was growing daily worse. Painful days and sleepless
nights were no longer the exception, but the rule; and not long after
the coming in of the New Year, the help which for a long time she had
positively and even sternly refused, became a necessity to her. She
could neither rise nor lie down without assistance, and she was fast
losing the use of her limbs. She was patient, or at least she strove to
be, towards her nieces; but she murmured audibly against God, who had so
heavily afflicted them.
The firm health and cheerful spirits of the girls, Annie and Sarah,
stood them in good stead during those long months of suffering. Sarah
was the housekeeper, and she fulfilled the many and complicated duties
of her office with an alacrity and success that might well surprise them
all. She planned and arranged with the skill of a woman of experience,
and carried out her plans with an energy and patience that seldom
flagged. Indeed, she seemed to find positive pleasure in the little
make-shifts which their straitened means made every day more necessary,
and boasted of her wonderful powers in a way so merry and triumphant
that she cheered the rest when they needed it most.
Annie's task was harder than her sister's. The constant attendance upon
the sick-beds of her father and her aunt was very trying to a girl
accustomed to daily exercise in the open air; and there were days when
her voice was not so cheerful nor so often heard among them as it might
have been. But she was strong and patient, and grew daily more
efficient as a nurse; and though she did not know it, she was getting
just the discipline that she needed to check some faults and to
strengthen her character at the points where it needed strengthening
most.
As for Christie, she was neither nurse nor housekeeper; or rather, I
ought to say, she was both by turns. It was still her duty to attend to
little items here and there, which seem little when done, but the
neglect of which would soon throw a household into confusion. It was
"Christie, come here," and "Christie, go there," and "Christie, do this
and that," from morning till night, till she was too weary even to sleep
when night came. Her sisters did not mean to be exacting. Indeed, they
meant to be very kind and forbearing, and praised and petted her till
she was ready to forget her weariness, as well as their unmindfulness of
it. She did try very hard to be gentle, and patient, and useful, and
almost always she succeeded; and the homecoming of Effie on Saturday
night was the one event to which all her thoughts turned through the
week, whether she was successful or not.
And, indeed, Christie was not the only one of them whose chief pleasure
was a glimpse of Effie's cheerful face. It did them all good to have
her among them for a day or two every week. All looked to her for help
and counsel; and she seldom failed or disappointed any one. Whatever
sad thoughts of the present or misgivings for the future she might have,
she kept them, during her visits at home, quite to herself. So they who
needed it so much enjoyed the good of her cheerfulness, and she suffered
the doubts and suspense and painful anxiety of an elder sister in
silence.
The winter passed slowly and sadly away to the two invalids, in spite of
the hopes that spring might do for them what those long winter months
failed to do. March came and passed, and April brought new cares and
duties. The coming of the young lambs first, and afterwards the care of
the calves and the dairy, gave Annie and Sarah full employment for a
time. Annie's cheeks, that had grown thin and pale during the winter's
confinement, began to get back their bright colour again.
From this time the care of her father devolved almost entirely on
Christie. Her aunt was, in one respect, better than she used to be.
She rarely suffered such intense pain as during the first part of the
winter; but every day was making it more apparent that she could never
hope to have full use of her limbs again. To an affliction like this,
Aunt Elsie could not look forward submissively. She came at last to
acknowledge, in words, that her trouble was sent by God, and that she
ought to submit, believing that out of the present trial He could bring
blessing. But in her heart she murmured bitterly. She could not bear
to think that her helplessness added greatly to the burden of care that
their father's illness had brought on these young girls. Yet her
murmuring and repining spirit added to their troubles more than her
helplessness did. Those days were very dreary to Aunt Elsie.
And on none of the family did the burden of her great unhappiness rest
so heavily as upon Christie. Not that she had very much to do for her.
After she was dressed by Annie and settled in her low chair for the day,
she asked and needed little further care. Indeed, in the first misery
of her helplessness she rather shrank from all assistance that was not
absolutely indispensable, and almost resented all attempts to add to her
comfort or relieve her pain. Christie was never quite sure that her
aunt was satisfied with anything that was done for her. She never
complained; but her acceptance of service seemed always under protest,
as though she would fain have refused it if she had had the power. Her
very sympathy with the child in her weariness was so expressed as to
seem like a reproach.
In her attendance upon her father it was very different. All that was
done for him was right; and his gentle thanks for her constant
ministrations made the service sweet to his weary little daughter. No
doubt he passed many a sorrowful day during that long and painful
winter; but he suffered no murmur of his to add to the distress of those
dear to him. In the silence of many a long and wakeful night, he could
not but look in the face the possibility that his children might be left
orphans, and the thought could not be otherwise than one of great pain.
But he suffered no expression of doubt or fear to discourage them. He
wished to live for their sakes; and for a long time he believed that he
should live. But the hope passed away with the winter. As the days
began to grow long, and the time approached when his children hoped he
would be well again, the conviction gradually dawned upon him that the
summer air would bring no healing. He felt that he had taken his last
look of the snows of winter, that the willow buds and the pale spring
blossoms that his little ones brought to him so lovingly were the last
he should ever see. For himself it would be well; but for his
children--! None but He who knoweth all things knew the pang that rent
his heart at the thought of them! Orphans and strangers in a strange
land, what was to become of his young daughters? Some of those bright
May days were dark enough, as he groped amid the gloom of his great fear
for them.
But the faith of the Christian triumphed. Before the time came to speak
the words which were to chase all hope from their hearts, he could speak
them calmly and even hopefully. The voice that never speaks in vain had
said to the ear of faith, "Leave thy fatherless children with _Me_;" and
he was thenceforth at peace. He sometimes sighed when he noticed the
look of care that could not always be chased from the brow of his elder
girls; but almost always he was at peace about them and their future.
As for them, they were altogether hopeful. They never saw the cloud
that was growing darker and drawing nearer during those bright spring
days. In after days, they wondered at their strange unconcern, and said
to one another, "How could we have been so blind?" They were grave and
anxious many a time, but never with the fear of death. They held long
consultations together when Effie was at home; but it was always how
they might arrange their affairs so that they need not vex nor annoy
their father while he was not strong. They did not apprehend how near
was the time when no earthly care should have power to vex him. Even
Effie, more thoughtful and anxious than the rest, cheated herself with
the hope that time alone was needed to restore him. Whatever Aunt Elsie
saw in her brother's changing face, she said nothing of her fears till
the time for self-deception was past with them all.
When the time of his departure drew very near, they even thought him
better, because he suffered less, and because a far greater part of his
time was spent in his arm-chair, or in moving about the room. More than
once, too, he was able, by the help of his staff and of a daughter's
willing arm, to go into the garden, or to the turf seat at the end of
the house; and his enjoyment of the pleasant spring air and the pleasant
spring sights and sounds beguiled them into the belief that he was
becoming himself again. But, alas! it was not so. When the suffering
passed away, there came in its place a feeling of restlessness that
could not be controlled. There was rest for him nowhere. He grew weary
of the bed, weary of the arm-chair, weary of his aimless wanderings up
and down. At such times, Christie's voice, singing or reading, had, now
and then, a power to soothe, sometimes to quiet, sometimes even to put
him to sleep. And, indeed, she grew very skilful in her efforts to
soothe and amuse him; and at any hour of the night or day a movement of
his would bring her to his side. A softly-spoken word, or the loving
touch of his hand upon her head, was enough to make her forget all her
weakness and weariness; and during her whole life, or, at least, since
her mother's death, Christie had passed no happier days than in that
last month of her father's life.
"Your voice is like your mother's, Christie, my lassie," he said one
night, when all but themselves were sleeping.
Christie gave a quick look into his face. He smiled.
"Yes, and you have reminded me of her in various ways during the last
few weeks. I hope you will be as good a woman as your mother was,
Christie."
She was not a demonstrative child, usually; but now she dropped her face
upon her fathers hand, and he felt the fall of her warm tears. It was
gently withdrawn, and laid upon her head, and in words that Christie
never forgot, he prayed God to bless her. But even with the joy that
thrilled her there came upon her a shudder of awe--a fearful certainty
that she was listening to the words of a dying man. For a time she lay
quite motionless, and her father slumbered with his hand still upon her
head. He breathed quite softly and regularly, and in a little time
Christie found courage to raise herself and to look into his face.
There was no change on it, such as she had heard comes always to the
face of the dying, and gradually the quick beating of her heart ceased.
As she stood gazing, he opened his eyes and met her look.
"You are weary and wan, poor child," he said. "You should have let
Annie or Sarah be with me to-night. Lie down and rest."
"Are you worse, father? Would you like to have me call Annie or Sarah?"
He looked surprised.
"No; I am very comfortable. I think I shall sleep. Lie down and rest,
my poor, weary lamb."
She moved the light so that his face might be in the shadow, and then
laid herself down on the low bed near him. She did not mean to sleep;
she thought she could not, but weariness overcame her, and she did not
waken till Annie lifted the window-curtain and let the light stream in
on her face. She woke with a start and a cry; but a glance at her
sister's serene face reassured her.
"You frightened little creature! What makes you jump out of your sleep
in that way? I doubt if you have slept much, and yet father says he has
had a good night."
"Oh, yes, I have," said she, with a sigh of relief. "I think I have
been dreaming."
Looking into her father's face for confirmation of Annie's assurance
that he was better, he met her look with a smile which quite banished
her fears, saying he was very comfortable and had slept well. Once or
twice during the day her fears came back; but she strove to chase them
away, calling herself foolish and unthankful. And she could easily do
so; for he did seem really better. He conversed more than usual with
Aunt Elsie--though Christie did not understand all they said. She only
knew that they spoke earnestly, and that her father spoke cheerfully.
Aunt Elsie looked grave and doubtful enough. "But she always does,"
thought Christie. "I can judge nothing by that."
He went farther down the garden-walk than he had ever gone yet; and he
looked so cheerful, sitting in the sunshine, that Christie smiled at her
unreasonable fears. Alas! that day was to be ever memorable to the
Redfern children, as the last on which the sunshine ever rested on their
father's face. He never trod the garden path again.
That night Effie came home, and did not go away again till all was over.
Christie never knew very well how those days passed. She remembered
running down the lane to meet her sister in the twilight, and the
irresistible impulse that came over her to tell of the terrible fear
that had come upon her as she sat that night with her father's hand on
her head. She called herself foolish and weak, and hastened to tell her
sister how much better he had been through the day, how he had walked
down the garden and enjoyed the sunshine, and how easy and peaceful he
had been since then. But the shadow that had fallen on Effie's face at
her first words did not pass away as she continued to speak; and it was
with eyes opened to see "the beginning of the end" that she came into
her father's chamber.
She did not leave him again. Christie slept on the couch near him; but
all night long Effie sat with her eyes fixed on her father's changing
face. He did not bid her lie down, as he was wont to do. He always
smiled when he met her look, and once he said, "I have much to say to
you, Effie;" but, while she listened for more, he slumbered again. And
so the night passed.
The light of the morning made the change more visible. Sarah saw it
when she came in. They did not need to tell each other what they
feared. When Christie awoke, it was to see the anxious faces of the
three sisters bending over their father. She rose mechanically, and
stood beside them.
"Is he worse?" she asked. "He seems sleeping quietly."
She did not need to say more.
"Annie," said Effie, in a little time, beckoning her sister away from
the bed, "Aunt Elsie must have her breakfast before she is told this;
and the bairns--" Effie's voice failed her for a moment. "We must try
and keep them quiet."
Annie said something in a low voice about the doctor; Effie shook her
head.
"It's of no use," said Effie. "Still, we might send. I'll tell James."
And she went out.
A little after daybreak he seemed to rouse himself for a moment; but he
soon slumbered again. By and by their neighbours, who had heard from
the messenger sent for the doctor that Mr Redfern was worse, came
dropping in. They looked in for a moment upon the group of girls
gathered round their father's bed, and then, for the most part, seated
themselves in the outer room with Aunt Elsie. Mrs Nesbitt and her son
John lingered in the room, and whispered together. In a little while
the mother beckoned to Effie.
"My poor bairn," she said, "if you have anything to say to your father,
or anything to ask of him, it had better be now."
Effie gave a quick, startled look.
"Now?" she said. "So soon?"
"Effie, my bairn, for the sake of the rest," whispered her friend.
In a minute or two she was able to take her old place by the pillow. As
she bent over her father, the doctor came in. He stood for a moment
looking down on him.
"Speak to him," he said.
"Father," said Effie, stooping, with her face close to his. "Father."
He stirred a little at the sound of her voice, and his fingers wandered
aimlessly over the coverlet.
"Is it morning?" he asked.
"Father," repeated Effie, "Dr Grey is here."
He opened his eyes at that, and met the look of the doctor fixed on him.
"Oh, is the end come?" he asked. "I didna think it would be so soon.
Did I hear Effie's voice? I have so much to say to her! My poor
bairns!"
Effie bent her face again close to his. Her voice was low, but firm and
clear.
"Father, don't let any thought of us disturb you now. God is good. I
am not afraid."
"And your aunt, she has suffered much, sacrificed much for us. Consider
her first in all things. Be guided by her."
"Yes, father."
"There are other things. I didna think this was to be so soon; and now
it is too late. But you have some kind friends. Did I hear John
Nesbitt's voice?"
"Yes, father; he is here." And she beckoned to John to come nearer.
But he seemed to have forgotten him John stooped towards him, and said,
in a low voice:
"Is there anything I can say that would make it easier for you to leave
them?"
The eyes of the dying man turned towards him, slowly.
"John, you are a good man, and true. They will be very solitary. You
will be their friend?"
"Always. So help me God!"
The words were spoken like the words of a vow.
The dying man's mind seemed to wander a little after that; for he asked
again if it was morning, and what was to be done in the field to-day.
But Effie's pale face bending over him seemed to recall all.
"Effie," he said, "I leave them all with you--just as I would have left
them with your mother. Be to them what she would have been to you all.
You will ay be mindful of the little ones, Effie?"
"Father, with God's help, I will," she answered, firmly.
"Poor little ones! Poor wee Christie!" he murmured.
They brought them to him, guiding his hand till it rested on each head,
one after the other.
"Fear God, and love one another." It was all he had strength to say,
now. John Nesbitt read from the Bible a verse or two now and then,
speaking slowly, that the dying man might hear. Then an old man, one of
the elders of the kirk, prayed by the bedside. The uneasy movement of
his head upon the pillow, and the aimless efforts of his hands to grasp
something, were the only signs of suffering that he gave; and when Effie
took his hand in hers, these ceased.
"If Christie would sing, I think I could sleep," he said. "Her voice is
like her mother's."
Effie beckoned to her sister.
"Try, Christie; try," she said.
But Christie's lips could utter no sound. John Nesbitt began, "The
Lord's my Shepherd;" and in a little time several trembling voices
joined. When they came to the verse:
"Yea, though I walk through Death's dark vale,
Yet will I fear no ill;
For Thou art with me, and Thy rod
And staff me comfort still,--"
they rose full, clear, and triumphant. They were the last sounds he
heard on earth. When they ended, Mrs Nesbitt's hand was gently laid on
their father's eyelids, and at the sight of that the children knew they
were orphans.