When a great sorrow has just fallen upon us, we find it impossible to
feel that all things about us are not changed. We cannot imagine
ourselves falling into the old daily routine again. The death of one
dear to us gives us a shock which seems to unsettle the very foundation
of things. A sense of insecurity and unreality pervades all that
concerns us. We shrink from the thought that the old pleasures will
charm us again, that daily cares will occupy our minds to the exclusion
of to-day's sadness, that time will heal the wounds that smart so
bitterly now.
But it does; and as it passes, we find ourselves going the old rounds,
enjoying the old pleasures, doing the duties which the day brings; and
the great healer does his kindly office, to the soothing of our pain.
It is not that our bereavement is no longer felt, or that we have
forgotten the friend we loved. But the human heart is a harp with many
strings. Though one be broken, there are others which answer to the
touch of the wandering breezes; and though the music may be marred in
some of its measures, it is still sweet.
The young cannot long sit under the shadow of a great sorrow, if there
be any chance rays of sunshine gleaming. Besides, the poor have no time
to sit down and nurse their grief. When little more than a week had
passed after Mr Redfern's death, Effie was obliged to return to the
ruling and guiding of her noisy little kingdom. She went sadly enough;
and many an anxious thought went back to the household at home. But she
could not choose but go. They had agreed among themselves that there
should be no change till after the harvest should be gathered in, and in
the meantime, all the help that she could give was needed. Her monthly
wages were growing doubly precious in her estimation. They were the
chief dependence at home.
The sowing and planting had been on a limited scale this spring, and all
outdoor matters, except what pertained to the dairy, could very well be
attended to by James Cairns, their hired man, who was strong and
willing. So Annie and Sarah were in the house, and the little ones went
to school as soon as the summer weather came.
As for Christie, little was expected from her besides attending to Aunt
Elsie, and reading to her now and then. These were easy enough duties,
one would think, considering how little attention Aunt Elsie was willing
to accept from any one. But light as they were, Christie could not
hide, and did not always _try_ to hide, the truth that they were irksome
to her.
Poor little Christie! How miserable she was, often! How mortified and
ashamed of herself! This was all so different from what she had meant
to be when Effie went away--a help and a comfort to all. There were
times when she strove bravely with herself: she strove to be less
peevish, and to join the rest in their efforts to be useful and
cheerful; but she almost always failed, and every new failure left her
less able and less willing to try again.
But Christie was not so much to blame for these shortcomings as she had
sometimes been. The great reaction from the efforts and anxieties
before her father's death, as well as the shock of that event, left her
neither strength nor power to exert herself or to interest herself in
what was passing. Her sisters meant kindly in claiming no help about
the household work from her, but they made a mistake in so doing.
Active work, that would have really tired her, and left her no time for
melancholy musings, would have been far better for her. As it was, she
could apply herself to no employment, not even her favourite reading.
Her time, when not immediately under her aunt's eye, was passed in
listless wanderings to and fro, or in sitting with folded hands,
thinking thoughts that were unprofitable always, and sometimes wrong.
Fits of silence alternated with sudden and violent bursts of weeping,
which her sisters could neither soothe nor understand. Indeed, she did
not understand them herself. She struggled with them, ashamed of her
folly and weakness; but she grew no better, but rather worse.
She might well rejoice when, at the end of a fortnight, Effie came home.
The wise and loving elder sister was not long in discovering that the
peevishness and listlessness of her young sister sprang from a cause
beyond her control. She was ill from over-exertion, and nervous from
over-excitement and grief. Nothing could be worse for her than this
confinement to Aunt Elsie's sick-room, added to the querulousness of
Aunt Elsie herself.
"You should let Christie help with the milking, as she used to do," she
said to Sarah. "It would be far better for her than sitting so much in
Aunt Elsie's room. She seems ill and out of sorts."
"Yes, she's out of sorts," said Sarah, with less of sympathy in her tone
than Effie had shown. "There's no telling what to do with her
sometimes. She can scarcely bear a word, but bursts out crying if the
least thing is said to her. I dare say she is not very well, poor
child!"
"She seems far from well, indeed," said Effie, gravely. "And I'm sure
you, or I either, would find our spirits sink if we were to spend day
after day in Aunt Elsie's room. You don't know what it is till you try
it."
Sarah shrugged her shoulders.
"I dare say we should. But Christie doesna seem to mind much what Aunt
Elsie says. I'm sure I thought she liked better to be there than to be
working hard in the kitchen or dairy."
"She may like it better, but it's no' so good for her, for all that.
You should send her out, and try and cheer her up, poor lassie! She's
no' so strong as the rest of us; and she suffers much from the shock."
That night, when the time for bringing home the cows came, Effie took
her sun-bonnet from the nail, saying carelessly:
"I'm going to the pasture. Are you coming, Christie?"
"For the cows?" said Christie, tartly. "The bairns go for them."
"Oh, but I'm going for the pleasure of the walk. We'll go through the
wheat, and down by the brook. Come."
Christie would far rather have stayed quietly at home, but she did not
like to refuse Effie; and so she went, and was better for it. At first
Effie spoke of various things which interested them as a family; and
Christie found herself listening with pleasure to all her plans. At the
side of the brook, where they sat down for a while, as they usually did,
they spoke of their father and mother; and though Christie wept, it was
not that nervous weeping which sometimes so exhausted her. She wept
gently; and when Effie spoke of the love that should bind them all
closely together, now that they were orphans, she prayed inwardly that
God would make her more patient and loving than she had lately been.
Her heart was lighter than it had been for days, when they rose to go.
They went to the kirk together the next day too. They did not walk; so
there was no lingering in the kirk-yard or at the half-mile corner. But
the day was fine and the air pleasant; and the motion of the great wagon
in which they drove, though not very easy, was agreeable for a change,
and Christie enjoyed it all. I am afraid she did not enjoy the sermon
better than usual. She had a great many wandering thoughts, and she had
to struggle against overpowering drowsiness, which she did not quite
succeed in casting off. But she enjoyed the kind greetings and looks of
sympathy that awaited them in the kirk-yard, though they brought many
tears to Effie's eyes, and sent them gushing over her own pale cheeks.
She was glad of old Mrs Grey's sweet, cheerful words, and of the light
pressure of blind Allie's little hand. She was glad when she heard Mrs
Nesbitt ask Effie to bring her sister over to pass a week with her, and
more glad still when Effie made the promise, saying the change would do
her good. Altogether, the day was a pleasant one, and Christie went
home better and more cheerful than she had been since her father's
death.
But before the week was over she had fallen back into the old way again;
and when Effie came home on Saturday, she found her as wan and listless
and peevish as ever. Something must be done without delay, thought the
elder sister. So, that night, as she sat with Annie and Sarah in her
aunt's room, when all the little ones had gone to bed, she said:
"Aunt Elsie, I am going to take Christie back with me, to stay a week
with Mrs Nesbitt."
Aunt Elsie looked astonished and somewhat displeased.
"Why should you do the like of that?" she asked.
"Oh, just for a change. She's not very well, I think, and a little
change will do her good."
"Folk canna ay get changes when they would like them," said Aunt Elsie,
coldly. "I see nothing more than usual the matter with her. If she's
no' well, home's the best place for her. I see no cause why Mrs
Nesbitt should be troubled with the likes of her."
"Oh, Mrs Nesbitt winna think it a trouble. Christie will be no trouble
to her. I know she canna well be spared. You'll miss her; but she'll
be all the better a nurse when she comes home strong and cheerful."
"I beg you winna think about me in making your plans for pleasuring,"
said her aunt, in a tone which always made those who heard it
uncomfortable. "I'll try and do without her services for a while. She
thinks much of herself; and so do you, it seems."
There was an unpleasant pause, during which Effie congratulated herself
on the forethought that had sent Christie safely to bed before the
matter was discussed. Annie, as she generally did in similar
circumstances, started another subject, hoping to avert anything more
unpleasant. But Effie wanted the matter decided, and Aunt Elsie had
something more to say.
"It's my belief you mean to spoil the lassie, if she's no spoiled
already, petting and making a work with her as though she were really
ill. Ill! It's little any of you ken what it is to be ill."
"I don't think she's very ill," said Effie, gently; "but she's nervous
and weary and out of sorts, and I think maybe a change--"
"Nervous!" repeated Aunt Elsie, contemptuously. "It was better days
when there was less said about nerves than I am in the way of hearing
now. Let a bairn be cross, or sulky, and, oh! it's nervous she is, poor
thing! Let her have a change. I know not, for my part, what the world
is coming to. Nervous, indeed!"
"I didna mean to excuse Christie's peevishness--far from it," said
Effie. "I know you have not a cheerful companion in her. But I do
think she is not well; and as Mrs Nesbitt asked her, I thought perhaps
you wouldna mind letting her go for a while."
"It matters little what I may think on that or any other subject," said
Aunt Elsie, in a tone which betrayed that anger was giving place to
sadness. "Helpless as I am, and burdensome, I should take what
consideration I can get, and be thankful. I needna expect that my
wishes will govern any of you."
This was very unjust, and the best way to make her feel that it was so
was to keep silence; and not a word was said in reply. In a little time
she said, again--
"I dinna see how you can think of taking the child away anywhere, and a
printed calico all that she has in the way of mourning, and her father
not buried a month yet."
"It would matter very little at Mrs Nesbitt's," said Effie,
congratulating herself on her aunt's softening tone, but not seeming to
notice it.
"Times are sorely changed with us, when the price of a gown more or less
is felt as it is," said Aunt Elsie, with a sigh. "I have seen the
day--" And she wandered off to other matters. Effie chose to consider
the affair of Christie's going settled. And so it was. No further
objection was made; and they went together the next afternoon.
If Effie could have chosen among all the pleasant homes of Glengarry,
she could have found no better place for her young sister than Mrs
Nesbitt's. It was quiet and cheerful at the same time. Christie could
pursue her own occupations, and go her own way, no one interfering with
her, so long as her way was the right way and her occupation such as
would do her no injury. But there were no listless wanderings to and
fro, no idle musings, permitted here. No foolish reading was possible.
If a shadow began to gather on the child's brow, her attention was
claimed immediately, either by Jean, the merry maid-of-all-work, or by
Mrs Nesbitt herself. There were chickens to feed, or vegetables to be
gathered, or the lambs were to be counted, or some other good reason was
found why she should betake herself to the fresh air and the pleasant
fields or the garden.
The evenings were always bright. There was no danger of being dull
where Mrs Nesbitt's merry boys were. Her family consisted of four
sons. John, the eldest, was just twenty-three--though, for some reason
or other, the young Redferns were in the habit of thinking him quite a
middle-aged man. Perhaps it was because he was usually so grave and
quiet; perhaps because of a rumour they had heard that John meant, some
day, to be a minister. He taught a Sabbath-class too, and took part in
meetings, like a much older man than he was.
The other lads were considerably younger. Lewis, the second son, was
not yet eighteen; Charles was twelve, and little Dan not more than nine.
They were neither grave nor quiet. The house was transformed into a
very different place when they crossed the threshold from the field or
the school. In a fashion of her own, Christie enjoyed their fun and
frolic very much. She told Effie, when she came to see her, that she
had heard more laughter that week than she had heard in Canada in all
her life before. As for them, they wondered a little at her shyness and
her quiet ways; but they were tolerant, for boys, of her fancies and
failings, and beguiled her into sharing many a ramble and frolic with
them.
Once she went to her sister's school, which was three miles from the
Nesbitt farm, and once she spent a day with Mrs Nesbitt at old Mrs
Grey's, and they brought little Allie home with them. The little blind
girl was a constant wonder and delight. She was as cheerful and happy
as were any of the merry Nesbitt boys; and if there was less noise among
them when she was one of the circle, there was no less mirth. To say
that she was patient under her affliction would not be saying enough;
she did not seem to feel her blindness as an affliction, so readily and
sweetly did she accept the means of happiness yet within her reach. To
Christie, the gentle, merry little creature was a constant rebuke, and
all the more that she knew the little one was unconscious of the lesson
she was teaching.
There was no service in the kirk the next Sabbath, so, instead of going
home as usual, Effie, for Christie's sake, accepted Mrs Nesbitt's
invitation to spend it at her house. She saw with delight the returning
colour on her little sister's cheek, and noticed the change for the
better that had taken place in her health and spirits, and inwardly she
rejoiced over the success of her plan. "She shall have another week at
this pleasant place, if possible--and more than that." And she sighed
to think how much the poor girl might have to try both health and
spirits when these pleasant weeks should be passed. But she did not let
Christie hear her sigh. She had only smiles and happy words for her.
It was a very pleasant Sabbath for Christie--the very pleasantest she
could remember to have passed. She could not agree with Charlie Nesbitt
that it was "a little too long." She enjoyed every moment of it. She
enjoyed the early walk, the reading, the singing, and the walk to John
Nesbitt's Sabbath-class in the afternoon. It was rather far--three
miles, nearly--and the walk tired her a little. But all the more for
that did she enjoy her rest on the low sofa after tea.
It was a very pleasant place, that parlour of Mrs Nesbitt's--so neat,
so cool, so quiet. There was not much to distinguish it from other
parlours in Laidlaw; and, in general, they were prim and plain enough.
There was a small figured carpet, crimson and black, upon the floor. It
did not quite reach the wall on one side, for Mrs Nesbitt's Scottish
parlour had been smaller than this one; and the deficiency was supplied
by a breadth of drugget, of a different shade of colour, which might
have marred the effect somewhat to one more fastidious than Christie.
For the rest, the chairs were of some common wood and painted brown, the
sofa was covered with chintz to match the window-curtains, and there was
a pale blue paper on the walls. For ornaments, there were two or three
pictures on the walls, and on the mantel-piece a great many curious
shells and a quaint old vase or two. There was a bookcase of some dark
wood in the corner, which was well filled with books, whose bindings
were plain and dark, not to say dingy. There were few of Christie's
favourites among them; so that the charm of the room did not lie there.
There was another small cabinet, with a glass door--a perfect treasury
of beautiful things, in Christie's estimation, old china and glass, and
an old-fashioned piece or two of plate; but the key was safely kept in
Mrs Nesbitt's pocket.
Perhaps it was the charm of association that made the place so pleasant
to Christie. Here, every day, she had been made to rest on the chintz
sofa, and every day she had wakened to find a kind face beaming upon her
and to hear a kind voice calling her by name. I think almost any place
would have been pleasant with Mrs Nesbitt going about so gently and
lovingly in it. Some thought of this came into Christie's mind, as she
lay musing there that Sabbath afternoon. The fading light fell on the
soft grey hair that showed beneath the widow's snowy cap, and on the
placid face beneath, with a strangely beautifying power. The sweet
gravity that was on her silent lips was better worth seeing, Christie
thought, than other people's smiles. Her eyes had no beauty, in the
common acceptation of the term. They seemed like eyes that had been
washed with many tears. But the sadness which must have looked from
them once had given place to patience and gentle kindness now.
"How nice and quiet it is here!" whispered Christie to her sister, who
sat beside her, leaning her head upon her hand.
Effie quite started, as she spoke.
"Yes; it is a very peaceful place. I get rid of all vexing thoughts
when I come in here." And she turned her eyes to Mrs Nesbitt's placid
face.
"Vexing thoughts!" repeated Christie. "I dare say Effie has many a
one." And she sighed too; but almost before she had time to ask herself
what Effie's vexing thoughts might be, she was asleep. A voice, not
Effie's nor Mrs Nesbitt's, soon awoke her. The twilight had deepened,
and up and down the darkening room John Nesbitt was walking, with a step
quicker than was usual. Christie fancied there was something like
impatience in his step. He soon came and leaned on the window, close to
the place where Effie sat, and Christie heard him say, in a voice which
was not quite steady:
"Is it all over, then, Effie?"
Effie made a sudden movement of some kind, Christie could not tell what,
and after a moment she said:
"It would be better for you, John."
He did not wait to hear more. Soon, however, he came back again.
"And will it be better for you, Effie?" he asked, gravely and gently,
yet with strong feeling.
"I must think of many a one before myself in this matter," she said; and
soon after added, "Don't make this trouble harder to bear, John."
There was a long silence; but John did not resume his walk, and by and
by Effie spoke again.
"Do you never think of your old wish to finish your studies?"
"My father's death put an end to that," he answered, sadly.
"I don't know why," said Effie. "Of course at the time it must have
done so; but you are young, and your brothers are growing up to take
your place with your mother and on the farm, and I think it would be
like putting your hand to the plough and looking back, to give up all
thought of entering the ministry. You have your life before you, John."
He did not answer.
"If it were for no other reason than that," continued Effie, "I could
not consent to burden you in the way you propose; and besides--your
mother--"
She turned, and caught the astonished eyes of Christie peering out of
the darkness, and paused.
"Effie," said Christie, when they were in their own room, and the candle
was out, "what were you saying to John Nesbitt to-night?"
"Saying?" repeated Effie.
"Yes--in the parlour. Does he want us to come and live here? I thought
he did by what he said."
"Some of us," said Effie, after a pause. "John is very kind, and so is
his mother. But of course it is not to be thought of."
"Must we leave the farm, Effie?" asked Christie, anxiously.
"I hardly know; I cannot tell. Aunt Elsie must decide."
"Is it not ours, Effie? Was my father in debt?"
"Not for the farm; but it was paid for, or partly paid for, with money
that belonged to Aunt Elsie. I canna explain it. She sold her annuity,
or gave up her income, in some way, when we came here. And in the
letter that father wrote, he said that he wished that in some way, as
soon as possible, she should get it back."
"But how?" asked Christie, wondering.
"I hardly know. But you know, Christie, Aunt Elsie is not like other
people--mean; it would make her more unhappy to feel that she was
dependent than it would make most people. And we must, in some way,
manage to do as father wished. If he had lived, it would have been
different. She doesna think that I know about it. She didna see
father's letter."
"Then the farm will be Aunt Elsie's?" said Christie.
"Yes; and if we could manage it well, we might live on as we have been
living; but I am afraid we canna."
Christie had her own thoughts about all living on Aunt Elsie's farm; but
she said nothing.
"I suppose we shall have to let the farm, or sell it, and get the money
invested, in some way, for Aunt Elsie."
"And what then?" asked Christie, in a suppressed tone.
"I am sure I canna tell," said Effie; and the tone of her voice betrayed
more anxiety than her words did. "Not that there is any great cause for
anxiety," she added. "There is always work to do for those who are
willing; and we'll try and keep together till the bairns are grown up."
"Will Aunt Elsie go home to Scotland, do you think, Effie?" asked
Christie.
"Oh, no! I don't think she will. She doesna like this country
altogether, I know; but now that she has grown so helpless, she will not
care to go back. She has no very near friends there now."
"Do you think Aunt Elsie would take the money if the farm was sold?"
asked Christie, again.
"As to that, it has been partly hers all along. When the farm was
bought, my father gave Aunt Elsie a mortgage, or something--I don't
understand exactly what--but it was as a security that her money was to
be safe to her. If we had been able to carry on the farm, there would
have been little difference; though there are some other debts too."
"And if we leave the farm, where can we go?" asked Christie.
"I don't know; I lose myself thinking about it. But God will provide.
I am not _really_ afraid, when I have time to consider. The bairns must
be kept together in some way. We must trust till the way is opened
before us."
But there was something very unlike Effie's usual cheerfulness in her
way of speaking. Christie could plainly see that. But she mistook the
cause.
"Effie," she said, after a little pause, "it winna be very pleasant to
think that we are depending on Aunt Elsie. I dinna wonder that you
sigh."
"Whisht, Christie! It's not that, child. I don't think you are quite
just to Aunt Elsie. She has done much, and given up much, for us since
mother died. Her way is not ay pleasant; but I think she would be
easier to deal with as the giver than as the receiver. I mean, I shall
be very glad if it can be arranged that she shall have her income again.
But we won't speak more of these things to-night, dear. We only vex
ourselves; and that can do no good."
But Effie did not cease to vex herself when she ceased to speak, if
Christie might judge from the sighs that frequently escaped her. Just
as she was dropping to sleep, her sister's voice aroused her.
"Christie," she said, "you are not to say anything to any one about--
about John Nesbitt's wanting me to come here. Of course it's
impossible; and it mustna be spoken about."
"I couldna help hearing, Effie."
"No; I know, dear. But it's not to be spoken about. You must forget
it."
"Did Mrs Nesbitt want it too?" asked Christie.
"I don't know. Mrs Nesbitt is very kind; but you mustna say anything
to her about this matter--or to any one. Promise me, Christie."
Christie promised, wondering very much at her sister's eagerness, and
thinking all the time that it would be very nice to live with Mrs
Nesbitt and her sons, far pleasanter than to live on the farm, if it was
to be Aunt Elsie's. Christie felt very unsubmissive to this part of
their trouble. She thought it would be far easier to depend for a home
and food and clothes on their kind neighbours, who were friends indeed,
than on the unwilling bounty of her aunt. But, as Effie said, Christie
by no means did justice to the many good qualities of her aunt, and was
far from properly appreciating her self-denying efforts in behalf of
them all.
After that night, Effie did not often allude to their future plans when
with Christie. It was best not to vex themselves with troubles that
might never come, she said. They must wait patiently till the harvest
was over, and then all would be settled.
The summer passed on, with little to mark its course. Christie had more
to do about the house and in the garden than in the spring, and was
better and more contented for it. But she and her sisters sent many an
anxious glance forward to the harvest-time.
They did not have to wait so long, however. Before the harvest-time
their affairs were settled. An opportunity, which those capable of
judging thought very favourable, occurred for selling it; and it was
sold. They might have occupied the house for the winter; but this would
only have been to delay that which delay would make no easier. It was
wiser and better in every way to look out for a home at once.
About six miles from the farm, in the neighbourhood where Effie's school
was, there stood on the edge of a partially-cleared field a small
log-house, which had been for several months uninhabited. Towards this
the eyes of the elder sister had often turned during the last few weeks.
Once, on her way home from school, she went into it. She was alone;
and though she would have been very unwilling to confess it, the
half-hour she passed there was as sorrowful a half-hour as she had ever
passed in her life. For Effie was by no means so wise and courageous as
Christie, in her sisterly admiration, was inclined to consider her.
Looking on the bare walls and defective floors and broken windows, her
heart failed her at the thought of ever making that a home for her
brother and sisters.
Behind the house lay a low, rocky field, encumbered with logs and
charred stumps, between which bushes and a second growth of young trees
were springing. A low, irregular fence of logs and branches, with a
stone foundation, had once separated the field from the road; but it was
mostly broken-down now, and only a few traces of what had been a garden
remained. It was not the main road that passed the house, but a
cross-road running between the main roads; and the place had a lonely
and deserted look, which might well add to the depression which anxiety
and uncertainty as to their future had brought on Effie. No wonder that
very troubled and sad was the half-hour which she passed in the dreary
place.
"I wish I hadna spoken to Aunt Elsie about this place," she said to
herself. "She seemed quite pleased with the thought of coming here; but
we could never live in this miserable hovel. What could I be thinking
about? How dreary and broken-down it is!"
There were but two rooms and a closet or two on the ground-floor.
Above, there might be another made--perhaps two; but that part of the
house was quite unfinished, showing the daylight through the chinks
between the logs. Floor there was none.
"It could never be made comfortable, I am afraid," she said, as she made
her way down the creaking ladder. "I could never think of bringing the
bairns here." And it was with a heavy heart that she took her way home.
But her courage rose again. Before many days had passed she had decided
to try what could be done with the place. The house, such as it was,
with a little square of garden-ground, could be got for a rent merely
nominal. It was near her school. She could live at home, and the
little ones could go to school with her. Thus they could be kept
together, and their education not be neglected. With what she and her
sisters could earn they could live comfortably for some years in this
quiet place. She could not fulfil her promise to her father to keep the
little ones together, elsewhere; for she must not give up her school.
Her salary was not large, but it was sure; and here they would be under
her own eye. The price of the farm had been well invested in her aunt's
name, though Aunt Elsie herself was not yet aware of the fact. Effie
was not sure whether she would remain with them or return home. But
whatever she did, her income must be quite at her own disposal. The
sisters must work for themselves and the little ones. If their aunt
stayed with them, well; but they must henceforth depend on their own
exertions.
When Effie had once decided that the little log-house on the cross-road
was thenceforward to be their home, her naturally happy temper, and her
earnest desire to make the best of all things for the sake of the
others, made it easy for her to look for hopeful signs for the future,
and to make light of difficulties which she could not fail to see.
Under her direction, and by her assistance, the little log-house
underwent an entire transformation before six weeks were over. Nothing
was done by other hands which her own or Sarah's and Annie's could do.
The carpenters laid new floors and mended broken windows; the plasterers
filled the chinks and covered the walls of what was to be their chamber;
but the girls themselves scrubbed and whitewashed, papered and painted,
cleaned away rubbish from without and from within, and settled their
various affairs with an energy and good-will which left them neither
time nor inclination for repining. In a little while it would have been
impossible to recognise in the bright and cheerful little cottage the
dismal place in which, at her first visit, Effie had shed some very
bitter tears.
Aunt Elsie did not leave them. She quite resented the idea of such a
thing being possible. She had little faith in the likelihood of the
children being kept together and clothed and fed by the unassisted
efforts of the sisters, and assumed the direction of affairs in the new
home, as she had always done in the old. Effie's words with regard to
her proved true. She was far easier to do with when she found herself
in a position to give rather than to receive assistance. Her income was
not large. Indeed, it was so small that those who have never been
driven to bitter straits might smile at her idea of a competence. It
would have barely kept her from want, in any circumstances; but joined
to Effie's earnings it gave promise of many comforts in their humble
home. So ample did their means seem to them at first, that they would
fain have persuaded each other that there need be no separation--that
all might linger under the shelter of the lowly roof. But it could not
be. Annie and Sarah both refused to eat bread of their sister's
winning, when there was not work enough to occupy them at home; and
before they had been settled many weeks, they began to think of looking
for situations elsewhere.
At first they both proposed to leave; but this Effie could not be
prevailed upon to consider right. Helpless as Aunt Elsie was and seemed
likely to continue, there was far more to do in their little household,
limited as their means were, than it was possible for Christie to do
well. The winter was coming, already the mornings were growing short.
She herself could do little at home without neglecting her school; and
her school must not be neglected. And besides, though Effie did not say
much about it, she felt that almost any other discipline would be better
for her nervous, excitable sister, than that she would be likely to
experience with none to stand between her and the peculiar rigour of
Aunt Elsie's system of training. So she would not hear of both Annie
and Sarah leaving them. Indeed, she constantly entreated, whenever the
matter was discussed, that neither of them should go till winter was
over. There was no fear but that the way would be opened before them.
In the meantime, they might wait patiently at home.
And the way was opened far sooner than they had hoped or than Effie
desired. A lady who had been passing the summer in the neighbourhood
had been requested by a friend in town to secure for her the services of
a young woman as nurse. Good health and a cheerful temper, with
respectability of character, were all that was required. Then Annie and
Sarah began seriously to discuss which of them should go and which
should stay at home. Strange to say, Aunt Elsie was the only one of
them all who shrank from the idea of the girls "going to service" or
"taking a place." It was a very hard thing for her brother's daughters,
she said, who had been brought up with expectations and prospects so
different. She would far rather that Sarah who was skilful with the
needle, and had a decided taste for millinery and dressmaking, should
have offered herself to the dressmaker of the neighbouring village, or
even have gone to the city to look for such a situation there. But this
plan was too indefinite to suit the girls. Besides, there was no
prospect of present remuneration should it succeed. So the situation of
nurse was applied for and obtained by Annie. Sarah's needle could be
kept busy at home, and perhaps she could earn a little besides by making
caps and bonnets for their neighbours. While they awaited the lady's
final answer, the preparations for Annie's departure went busily on.
The answer came, and with it a request that another nurse might be
engaged. A smaller girl would do. She would be expected to amuse, and
perhaps teach reading to two little girls. If such a one could be
found, permission was given to Annie to delay her departure from home
for a week, till they should come together.
There was a dead silence when the letter was read. Annie and Sarah
looked at each other, and then at Effie. Christie, through all the
reading, had never taken her eyes from her elder sister's face. But
Effie looked at no one. The same thought had come into the minds of
all; and Effie feared to have the thought put into words. But Aunt
Elsie had no such fear, it seemed; for after examining the letter, she
said, in a voice that did not betray very much interest in the subject:
"How would you like to go, Christie?" Christie said nothing, but still
looked at Effie.
"What do you think, Effie?" continued her aunt.
"Oh, it's of no use to think about it at all! There's no need of
Christie's going. She is not strong enough. She is but a child."
Effie spoke hastily, as though she wished the subject dropped. But Aunt
Elsie did not seem inclined to drop it.
"Well, it's but a little girl that is wanted," she said. "And as for
her not being strong enough, I am sure there canna be any great strength
required to amuse two or three bairns. I dare say it might be the very
place for her."
"Yes; I dare say, if it was needful for Christie to go. There will be
many glad to get the place. You must speak to the Cairns' girls,
Annie."
"Would you like to go, Christie?" asked her aunt, with a pertinacity
which seemed, to Effie at least, uncalled for.
But Christie made no answer, and looked still at Effie.
"There is no use in discussing the question," said Effie, more hastily
than she meant to speak. "Christie is far better off at home. There is
no need of her going. Don't speak of it, Aunt Elsie."
Now Aunt Elsie did not like to have any one differ from her--"to be
dictated to," as she called it. Effie very rarely expressed a different
opinion from Aunt Elsie. But her usual forbearance made her doing so on
the present occasion the more disagreeable to her aunt; and she did not
fail to take her to task severely for what she called her disrespect.
"I didna mean to say anything disrespectful, Aunt Elsie," said she,
soothingly, and earnestly hoping that the cause of her reproof might be
discussed no further. But she was disappointed.
"Wherefore should I no' speak about this thing for Christie? If it's no
disgrace for Annie to go to service, I see no season why it should not
be spoken of for Christie."
"Disgrace, aunt!" repeated Effie. "What an idea! Of course it is
nothing of the sort. But why should we speak of Christie's going when
there is no need?"
"For that matter, you may say there is no need for Annie's going. They
both need food and clothes as well as the rest."
Effie took refuge in silence. In a little while her aunt went on:
"And as for her being a child, how much younger, pray, is she than
Annie? Not above two years, at most. And as for health, she's well
enough, for all that I can see. She's not very strong, and she wouldna
have hard work; and the change might do her good. You spoil her by
making a baby of her. I see no reason why the bread of dependence
should be sweeter to her than to the rest."
"It would be bitter enough, eaten at your expense," were the words that
rose to Christie's lips in reply, Effie must have seen them there, for
she gave her no time to utter them, but hastily--almost sharply--bade
her run and see what had become of the girls and little Willie.
Christie rose without speaking, and went out.
"Aunt," said Effie, quietly, when she was gone, "I don't think it is
quite kind in you to speak in that way to Christie about dependence.
She is no more dependent than the rest of the children. Of course, when
she's older and stronger she'll do her part. But she is very sensitive;
and she must not be made unhappy by any foolish talk about her being a
burden."
Effie meant to soothe her aunt; but she failed, for she was really angry
now, and she said a great many words in her anger that I shall not
write--words that Effie always tried to forget. But the result of it
all was that Annie's departure was delayed for a week, till Christie
should be ready to go with her.
But I should be wrong in saying that this decision was the result of
this discussion alone. There were other things that helped Effie to
prevail upon herself to let her go. It would be better and pleasanter
for Annie to have her sister near her; and Christie was very desirous to
go. And, after all, the change might be good for her, as Aunt Elsie
said. It might improve her health, and it might make her more firm and
self-reliant. Going away among strangers could hardly be worse for her
than a winter under the discipline of her aunt. Partly on account of
these considerations, and partly because of Christie's importunities,
Effie was induced to consent to her going away; but it was with the
express understanding that her absence was to be brief.
As the time of their departure drew near, she did not grow more
reconciled to the thought of her sister's going. She felt that she had
been over-persuaded; and in her heart there was a doubt as to whether
she had done quite right in consenting.
The last night, when all the others had gone to bed, and Effie was doing
some household work below, Christie slipped down-stairs again.
"Effie," she said, eagerly, "do not take my going away so much to heart.
I am sure it is _for the best_, and I shall grieve if you grieve. Do
think that it's right."
"You foolish lassie! Did you come down-stairs with bare feet to tell me
that? How cold your hands are! Come and sit down by the fire. I want
to speak to you."
Christie sat down, as she was bidden, but it was a long time before
Effie spoke--so long that Christie said at last:
"What is it, Effie?"
Her sister started. "I have nothing to say but what I have said before,
Christie. You are not to stay if you don't like. You are not to let
any thought of any one or anything at home keep you, unless you are
quite content and quite strong and well. And, at any rate, you are to
come home in the spring."
Effie had said all this before; and Christie could only repeat her
promise.
"I am afraid you think I am wrong to go away, Effie?"
"No, dear; I don't think you are wrong. I am sure your motives are
good. I wish you were not going; but there is no use in saying so now.
I hope it will turn out for the best to you and to us all. I will try
and not be anxious about you. God will keep you safe, I do not doubt."
"Effie," said Christie, "do you remember what you said to me once about
God's hearing prayer, and how He always hears the prayers of His people
in the best way, though not always in the way they wish and expect?"
"Yes, I mind something about it. And how all things work together for
good to His people and for His glory at the same time. Yes, I mind."
"Well," said Christie, softly, "if folk really believe this, it will be
easy for them to leave their friends in God's hands. They can ask Him
for what they need, being sure that they will get what is best for them,
and that He canna make a mistake."
There was a few minutes' silence; and then Effie said:
"Christie, if I were sure that you are one of God's people--one of the
little lambs of His flock--I would not fear to let you go. Do you think
you are?"
"I don't know, Effie. I am afraid not. I am not like what the Bible
says God's people ought to be. But I am sure I wish to be."
"Christie," said her sister, earnestly, "you must never let anything
hinder you from reading your Bible every day. You must not rest till
you are sure about yourself."
"Effie," she said, in a low voice, and very seriously, "I think God did
once hear a prayer of mine. It was a good while ago--before father
died. It was one of my bad days; I was worse than usual; and when I
came back from the pasture I sat down by the brook--under the
birch-tree, you mind--and I went from one thing to another, till I said
to myself, `I'll see if there's any good in praying.' And so I prayed
Aunt Elsie might not scold me when I went home; and she didna. But I
didna care for that, because you were at home that night. But I prayed,
too, that you might bring me a book. I meant `The Scottish Chiefs,' or
something; but you brought my Bible. I have thought, sometimes, that
was one of the prayers answered in a better way than we ask or expect."
The last few words were spoken in a very husky voice; and as she ceased,
her head was laid on Effie's lap. There were tears in Effie's eyes
too--she scarcely knew why. Certainly they were not for sorrow. Gently
stroking her sisters drooping head, she said:
"Perhaps it was so, Christie. I believe it was; and you are right. We
need not fear for one another. We will trust in Him."