"MAN PROPOSES, GOD DISPOSES."
But something _did_ happen. That night, when Christie went home, she
found Mrs Lee ill. She was not very ill, at least, not much more so
than she had been for a long time. She had been quite unfit for the
fatigue of nursing her husband, and now that he was better, her strength
forsook her. There was a dull, low fever upon her. The doctor said
Mrs Greenly must be sent for and the baby must be weaned. Christie's
heart sickened as she heard all this. Could she leave the baby to a
strange nurse? It would greatly add to the anxiety of the mother, and
might hinder her recovery for a time, even to know that the children,
and especially the delicate baby, must be left to the care of a
stranger. Ought she to go home?
What a wakeful, miserable night she passed! She fancied she could bear
to stay; but to disappoint Effie and all at home was very painful. Must
she stay? It seemed so hard to change her plans now, both for her own
sake and theirs.
But the morrow decided the matter for her. Letty was irritable all day
and all night, and when the doctor came in the morning, he pronounced
her symptoms to be those of scarlet fever. So Christie and the other
children were banished to the attic-nursery again. She said not another
word about going home, except to her sister.
"Tell Effie I couldna get away. It wouldna be right to leave; would it,
Annie? I will try and not be very unhappy about it."
But the tears that rolled down her cheeks told how bitter the
disappointment was to her. Annie would have lingered a week, even to
the shortening of her visit at home, for the sake of having Christie go
with her; but this was not to be thought of. The fever might go through
the whole family. The doctor thought that most likely it would do so;
and she could not better leave at the end of a week than now.
"And don't tell them I was so very much disappointed about it," she
said, trying to smile, when Annie rose to go. "They must be all the
more glad to see me when I come. I couldna go, Annie. Now, do you
really think I could?"
They were up in the attic-nursery. Christie sat with the baby in her
lap, while little Harry hung about her, begging to be taken up. The
other boys were engaged in some noisy play near the window; but the
confinement up-stairs had already made them irritable, and Christie's
constant interference was required to keep the peace between them. How
much worse it would be if an entire stranger were put in the place of
her who had been their kind nurse all the winter! And the poor, anxious
mother down-stairs too, how much worse for her!
"No, Christie, dear; considering all things, I think you do right to
stay. But it is a great disappointment."
"Make Effie understand how it is." It was only by a great effort that
she restrained a flood of tears till her sister had gone. Then they
fell upon the baby's frock like rain. The boys looked on in
astonishment, and little Harry burst out into a frightened cry, wakening
the baby, who joined her voice to his.
"There! there! Hush, baby! hush! Harry, don't cry. Oh me! what shall
I do?"
There was but one thing to do, and she tried faithfully to do it;--it
was to forget herself and her disappointment, and devote herself to the
little ones for the day. And so she did, for that day and many days,
with better success than she had dared to hope for. Letty was in the
other nursery, next to her mother's room, and for several days Christie
saw neither of them. The baby missed her mother less than might have
been expected, and submitted to her privation quietly enough. By
passing the day down-stairs in the dining-room, or out in the yard when
the weather was fine, Christie contrived to keep the boys amused and
happy most of the time. Mr Lee was absent on one of his business
journeys. It was uncertain when he would return; but Nelly was equal to
all housekeeping emergencies, and no one spoke of his absence with
regret. Mrs Greenly always considered Christie as under her special
patronage, as she had been the means of bringing her to the house, and
she strove to lighten her burden as much as possible. But it was a
weary time, those first ten days after Annie went away.
Christie did not go to church the first Sabbath. It is doubtful whether
she would have found the courage, even if she could have been spared.
The next week was not so bad with them. Letty's illness, though severe,
proved less so than had been feared at first; and though Mrs Lee grew
no better, she did not grow worse. Before the second Sabbath, Letty was
pronounced out of danger, and Nelly, taking pity on Christie's pale,
weary face, offered to take her place with the children while she went
to church.
She went early, as usual, and had time for the shedding of some very
sorrowful tears before the congregation gathered. I am afraid there was
a little bitterness mingled with the sorrow. The good she had done by
staying did not seem worth the great sacrifice it had cost. Letty had
not been very ill after all. The other children were well, and might
have done with a stranger, and she might have been going to the kirk at
home with Effie that very day. Besides, Mrs Greenly did not seem to
think her staying a great matter--though she had more than once praised
her for her care of the children. As for Mrs Lee, she had scarcely
seen her; and when she had, she had not alluded to the change in her
plans which sickness had made. What had cost her so much, she thought,
was a small matter in their view; and it is no wonder that the pang of
home-sickness that smote her, as she looked at her sister's empty seat
in the kirk, was all the harder to bear because of this. She did not
gain much good from the sermon that day. Heedless of some curious--
perhaps pitying--eyes that were turned towards her, she leaned her head
on her hand and thought her own dreary thoughts; and when the services
were over, she rose and went away with the rest, although uncomforted.
The day passed slowly enough. It needed a greater effort than she could
make to amuse the children and keep them interested, and they were noisy
and trouble some. The baby, too, was fretful, and would by no means be
content to sit still; and Christie wandered about with her, listless and
miserable, till tea-time. After tea, thankful for the prospect of a
little peace, she put the boys to bed, and seating herself by the baby's
cot, went back to her sad, unprofitable thoughts again.
It was well for her--though she did not think so--that this moody fit
did not last long. Mrs Greenly's step upon the stairs aroused her.
"Christie," said she, "are you reading? Just take your book and go and
sit down-stairs, will you? Letty's asleep, and will need nothing, I
dare say. If she does, you can call me. Mrs Lee will need nothing
either. I don't know how it is that I am so overcome with sleep. I'll
lie down and rest a minute or two, and I'll hear the children if they
wake."
Christie took her book and went down, but she did not read. Instead of
that, she seated herself in the dark on the stairs, and began her
unprofitable musings again. Mrs Lee was not asleep. She was evidently
feverish and uncomfortable, and turned about and sighed often and
heavily. Christie had been told not to go into her room unless she was
called, so she sat still a little, beguiled from her own sad thoughts as
she took note of the uneasiness of the sick lady.
"Are you there, nurse?" said Mrs Lee, at last.
Christie rose, and went softly in.
"Oh, is it you, Christie? Are the children asleep? How's the baby
to-night? I feel very weary and wakeful. I don't know what ails me."
"Shall I call nurse?" asked Christie.
"No. Oh, no. She could do nothing for me. Are you reading? Read to
me a little. Perhaps it will quiet me and make me fall asleep."
While Christie brought the light and placed it where Mrs Lee's eyes
would not be troubled by it, she said again:
"The children are quite well, nurse tells me. It was very well that you
decided not to go home, Christie. I am very glad you stayed."
Christie said nothing.
"I am afraid your sister was disappointed," said Mrs Lee.
"Yes," said Christie. She could not say more. "Do you think you will
go soon?"
"I don't know, ma'am." Poor Christie! Going or staying seemed a small
matter to Mrs Lee. It would not bear talking about; so she said:
"What shall I read to you?"
"Oh, anything. It doesn't matter. Anything to pass the time."
Christie turned over a book or two that lay on the table, still at a
loss what to choose.
"You had a book in your hand when you came in," said Mrs Lee,
presently. "Read that."
It was the Bible; and opening it at random, Christie read. She read
softly and slowly, psalm after psalm; and soothed by her voice, Mrs Lee
lay and listened. After a time, Christie thought that she slept, and
made a pause.
"Do you believe what you have been reading?" she asked, suddenly.
Christie started.
"It's the Bible," said she.
"Yes; I know. Of course you believe it in a general way. Everybody
does. But do you take the good of it? That, for instance--`God is our
refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not
we fear, though the earth be removed.' Are you never afraid?"
Christie did not answer.
"Do you remember what you said to me the other night about your sister,
and all things working for good to those who love God? Are you sure of
it? And are you always content with what God sends you?"
Poor Christie! She sat conscience-stricken, remembering her murmuring
spirit through the day.
"If I could be sure that I am one of those to whom God has given a right
to His promises, I think I should be content with all He sends."
She spoke humbly, and in a broken voice.
"Oh, if one could be sure!" murmured Mrs Lee. "If there was any good
or pleasant thing in this world of which one could be quite sure! Oh,
how weary I am of it all!"
The charm of the reading was broken. She moved her head restlessly on
the pillow. Christie went to her.
"Can I do anything for you? Let me bathe your hands and face." And she
brought some fresh water. "Sometimes when my head used to ache badly,
my mother brushed it softly."
"I thought your mother was dead," said Mrs Lee, raising herself up, and
submitting to be tended after Christie's fashion.
"Yes, she died four years ago. I was but a child; but I remember her
quite well."
"My mother is dead too," said Mrs Lee, with a sigh. "I wonder if she
would have died if I had not left her? I was but a child--only
sixteen--and we never can tell beforehand how things are to turn out.
If I had only known! But, oh me! why do I vex myself with all these
things to-night? It is too late now!--too late now!"
Christie was alarmed at her evident excitement. Laying her gently down
on her pillow, and smoothing her hair, she said:
"If you please, ma'am, Mrs Greenly said I was not to speak to you, and
that you must be kept quiet."
With a strange sound between a sob and a laugh, she said:
"Ah, yes! It is easy for her to say, `Keep quiet;' but all her good
nursing does not reach my troubles. Oh, me; how weary I am! My mother
is dead, and I have no sister; and my brothers have quite forgotten me.
But if we could only be sure that what your sister says is true, about
the Friend that cares for us, and who will bring us safe through all
troubles!"
"It's not Effie that says it," said Christie, eagerly, "It's in the
Bible; and you may be quite sure it's true."
"I wouldn't care so much for myself; but these poor little children who
have no one but me, and I so weak and helpless. My heart fails when I
think of all they may have to bear. I suppose my mother had just such
anxious thoughts about me. Oh, if she had known all! but she could not
have helped me here."
"But the verse says, `A very present help in trouble,'" said Christie,
softly. "That's one difference between a heavenly Friend and all
earthly friends."
"Yes," said Mrs Lee, languidly. Christie continued:
"The Bible says, too, `The Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon
Him, to all that call upon Him in truth.' And in another place, `Wait
on the Lord: be of good courage, and He shall strengthen thy heart.'"
"Yes; if, as you say, one could be sure that all these words were for
us," said Mrs Lee. Christie faltered a little; but by and by she said:
"Well, the trust, like all other blessings, comes from Him. We can but
ask Him for it. At any rate, it is to those who are in trouble that He
promises help. It is to those who labour and are heavy-laden that
Christ has promised rest."
"Rest!" echoed Mrs Lee, wearily. "Oh for rest!"
"Yes; and He says He will give it to those who come to Him," continued
Christie. "We ought not to doubt Him. He has said, in twenty places,
that He will hear prayer."
"I have a prayer-book. My mother gave it to me. But I have neglected
it sadly."
"But the New Testament and the Psalms are full of promises to hear
prayer." And Christie repeated many verses as they came to her mind:
"_Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out_.
"_Whatever ye ask in My name, it shall be done unto you_.
"_Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find_.
"_If ye, then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children,
how much more shall your Father in heaven give His Holy Spirit unto
those who ask Him_.
"And the Psalm says:--
"And in the day of trouble great
See that thou call on Me;
I will deliver thee, and thou
My name shalt glorify."
"Can't you sing?" asked Mrs Lee, coaxingly.
It was a long time before Christie could conquer her shyness so as to
sing even with the children, but she had no thought of shyness now. She
began the twentieth, and then the twenty-third Psalm, singing them to
old Scotch tunes--rippling notes of strange, wild melody, like what we
seldom hear in our churches nowadays. The child's voice had a clear,
silvery sweetness, melting away in tender cadences; and breathing words
suited to such times of need as come to all, whatever else may pass them
by, it did more than soothe Mrs Lee, it comforted her.
"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."
And so she sang on, her voice growing softer and lower, till Mrs Lee
fell asleep, and slept as she had not slept before for months, calmly as
a child; and Christie stood beside her, listening to her gentle
breathing, and saying to herself:
"I wonder if I have done her any good?"
Then she went back to her seat upon the stairs, and before she had sat
there long in the darkness the blessed knowledge came to her that,
whether she had done any good or not, she had gained much within the
last two hours. In trying to comfort another she had herself been
comforted.
"I can ask for the best blessing that God has to give, and keep asking
till I get it. Why should I not?" And no bitterness was mingled with
her tears, though they still fell fast. "I will try and do right, and
trust, and have patience, and God will guide me, I know He will."
And so she sat in the dark, sometimes slumbering, sometimes thinking,
till the baby's whimpering cry summoned her back to her usual care.
The next week was better in all respects than the last. Letty grew well
rapidly, and her mother improved a little day by day. The doctor,
looking now and then into the attic-nursery, gave them hope at last that
the little ones might escape the fever for this time; and Christie's
thoughts began to turn homeward again. But not so anxiously as before.
The pain of parting from the children would be harder now. And during
these days she began to feel a strange yearning tenderness for the poor
young mother, scarcely less helpless and in need of care than they. It
had come to be quite the regular thing now for Mrs Greenly to take an
hour's rest in the attic-nursery when the children had fallen asleep,
while Christie took her place in Mrs Lee's room.
New and wonderful were the glimpses which those twilight hours gave to
Christie. She found that Mrs Lee, sitting in her drawing-room, or even
in the nursery, giving directions about the care of the children, was a
very different person from Mrs Lee lying in bed feverish or exhausted,
looking back over the days of her childhood, or forward to a future that
was anything but hopeful to her disenchanted eyes. Naturally reserved,
the lady had made but few acquaintances in the city, and had not one
intimate friend; and now, when weak and weary and desponding, it was a
relief to her to speak to some one of the times and places and events
over which memory had brooded in silence for so many years. She never
dreamed what glimpses of her heart she was giving to her little nurse.
She only saw the sympathy expressed by Christie's grave face or eager
gesture; and she talked to her, sometimes regretfully enough, about her
mother and her brothers and her childish days. Yet, sad as those
memories were, they were scarcely so sad as the thoughts she sent out
into the future. She did not often speak her fears; but her silence and
her frequent sighs were to Christie more eloquent than words.
Christie rarely spoke at such times as these--never, except when a
question was asked; and then her reply was generally prefaced with, "I
have heard my father say," or, "Effie once told me," or, "I heard John
Nesbitt saying." Ignorant as she knew herself to be on the most
important of all subjects, she was yet far wiser than her mistress.
Some of Christie's simple remarks and suggestions made an impression on
her heart that wiser and more direct teachings might have failed to
make.
As for Christie, in her sympathy for Mrs Lee's troubles, she almost
forgot her own. In striving to relieve her from all anxiety about the
children, she was ready to forget even her own weariness; and in the
knowledge that she was doing some good to them all, she ceased to regret
that Annie had gone home without her.