And now a sad silence fell on the household. The children were not to
be brought home for some time, the doctor said; and their mother was not
able to go to them; so Christie was left to the almost unbroken quiet of
her forsaken nursery. She needed rest more than she was aware, and sank
into a state of passive indifference to all things which would have
alarmed herself had not her kind friend, Mrs Greenly, been there to
insist that she should be relieved of care till her over-tasked strength
should be in some measure restored. In those very quiet hours, thoughts
of home came to her only as a vague and shadowy remembrance. The events
of the winter, and even the more recent sufferings of the last month,
seemed like a dream to her. Dearly as she had loved her little charges,
she was hardly conscious of regret at their loss. It seemed like
something that had happened long ago--their long suffering and
departure. The very promises which had of late become so sweet to her,
soothed her merely as a pleasant sound might do. She scarcely took note
of their meaning or power during those days.
But this soon passed away, and with returning strength came back with
double force the old longing to go home. She had sent a line to Effie
when little Harry was taken ill, telling her how utterly impossible it
would be for her to leave her place. Since then, about the time of the
baby's death, a neighbour had called, and by him she had sent the same
message, assuring her sister that she was quite content to stay. But
her old eagerness to get home came back, now that she found herself with
little to occupy her, and she waited anxiously for the time when Mrs
Lee might be spoken to on the subject.
In the meantime, Mrs Greenly was called away, and the duty of
attendance upon Mrs Lee once more devolved on Christie. If anything
could have banished from her heart all thought of home or all wish for
change, the days that followed would have done so. Not an hour passed
in which she was not made to feel that she was a comfort to her friend--
for _friends_, in the highest sense, the mistress and her little maid
were fast becoming. The readings and conversations which had been begun
during their long watches together were renewed; and blessed seasons
they proved to both. Christie never knew--never could know on earth--
all the good she did Mrs Lee in those days. She was only conscious of
an ever-increasing love for her and an ever-increasing desire to serve
her.
If in the first agony of her bereavement there had been in the mother's
heart murmuring and rebellious thoughts, they were all stilled now.
With more than the submission of a chastened child--with joy that had in
it a sense of reconciliation and acceptance--she was enabled to kiss the
Hand that had smitten her. She seldom spoke of her children; but when
she did, it was with gratitude that they had been hers, and were still
hers, in heaven. Seen by the new light that was dawning on her soul,
the world, its hopes and fears and interests, looked to her very
different. Humble submission and cheerful trust took the place of her
old, anxious forebodings. Scripture truths, which formerly conveyed no
distinct idea to her mind, came home to her now with power. They were
living truths, full of hope and comfort. The promises were to her a
place of rest and refuge--a strong tower, into which she could run and
be safe. By slow degrees the light of the glorious Gospel of Jesus
Christ dawned upon her soul; and to one fearful and doubtful of the
future, as she had been, what blessed rest and refreshment was in the
trust, that gradually grew strong, in the embrace of an Arm mighty to
save! To know herself one of those to whom Jesus has given a right to
say, "I will fear no evil, for _Thou_ art with me," was all that she
needed for her consolation; and during those days the blessed knowledge
came to her.
What part the simple words and earnest prayers of her little nurse had
in bringing about this blessed change, God knows. The girl herself had
little thought of the good which her entrance into the household had
wrought. It might have helped her to a more patient waiting had she
known how often her name was mingled with the thankful praises of Mrs
Lee. She was not impatient, but a longing for home that would not be
stilled mingled with the gladness that filled her heart at the thought
of being useful.
Summer had come. June was half over, and the only glimpse of green she
had had was the top of the mountain, far-away. Now and then Nelly
brought home from the market a bunch of garden-flowers. But the sight
of them only made her long the more for the fields where so many flowers
that she knew had blossomed and faded unseen. More than once, when sent
out by Mrs Lee to take the air, she had tried to extend her walk in one
direction or another, till she should reach the country. But partly
because she did not know the way, and partly because she grew so soon
weary, she never succeeded. She had to content herself with the nearest
street where there were trees growing, and now and then a peep through
open gateways upon little dusty strips of grass or garden-ground.
Oh, how close and hot and like a prison the long, narrow streets seemed
to her! How weary the street-noises made her! It was foolish, she
knew, and so she told herself often, to vex herself with idle fancies.
But sometimes there came back to her, with a vividness which for the
moment was like reality, the memory of familiar sights and sounds.
Sometimes it was the wind waving the trees, or the ripple of the brook
over the stepping-stones; sometimes it was the bleating of the young
lambs in the pastures far-away. She caught glimpses of familiar faces
in the crowd, as she used to do in the home-sick days when she first
came; and she could not always smile at her folly. Sometimes her
disappointment would send her home sad and dispirited enough. Almost
always the smile that met her as she entered Mrs Lee's room brought
back her content; but often it needed a greater effort to be cheerful
than an on-looker could have guessed. Still, the effort was always
made, and never without some measure of success.
One morning she rose more depressed than usual. A quiet half-hour with
her little Bible was not sufficient to raise her spirits, though she
told herself it ought to be; and she said to herself, as she went
down-stairs, "I will speak to-day about going home."
Mrs Lee was able to go down-stairs now. On this particular day a
friend was to visit her, and Christie determined to say nothing about
the matter till the visitor should be gone. But the prospect of a long
day in the solitary nursery did not tend to brighten her face, and it
was sadly enough that she went slowly down the street on an errand for
Nelly when breakfast was over.
She did not look up to-day in her usual vain search for a "kenned face,"
or she would never have passed by the corner so unheedingly. A pair of
kind eyes, for the moment as grave and sad as her own, watched her as
she came on, and after she passed. In a little while a very gentle hand
was laid on her shoulder.
"What's your haste, Christie, my lassie?"
With a cry she turned to clasp the hand of John Nesbitt. Poor little
Christie! She was so glad, so very glad! It was almost like seeing
Effie herself, she told him, amid a great burst of tears that startled
the grave John considerably. For a moment her sobs came fast. The open
streets and the wondering passers-by were quite forgotten.
"Whisht, Christie, my woman," said John, soothingly, "that's no' the way
we show our gladness in Glengarry."
Drawing her hand under his arm, he held it firmly in his own. Christie
made a great effort to control herself, and the face which she soon
turned towards her friend had grown wonderfully brighter for the tears
that fell.
"Effie bade me notice how you looked and what you said; and I'm afraid
she'll no' be pleased to hear that I got such a tearful welcome," said
John, with his grave smile.
"Oh, Effie will understand. Why, it's almost like seeing Effie herself
to see you, John!" she repeated, giving him a tearful smile. She felt
sure it was a true friend's hand that pressed hers so warmly as she
spoke.
"But where are you going, Christie?" asked John.
"Oh, I forgot; we are past the place." But her face grew grave in a
moment. "When did you come, John? and how long are you going to stay?"
"I came yesterday, and I shall stay no longer than I can help. I have
had enough of this dusty town for once. I wonder how you ever stayed so
long in it, Christie."
"I wonder myself, whiles," she said gravely; "but it won't be long now."
"Are they better at your house? Will they spare you to go home with
me?"
"There is no one ill now. Did you hear--" But Christie's voice was lost
in the remembrance of little Harry and the baby.
"Yes, we heard. You must have had a sad time, poor lassie! But the
remembrance of these precious little ones cannot be altogether
sorrowful, Christie?"
"No; oh, no, indeed!" But she could say no more. As they drew near the
house, she added:
"And shan't I see you again, John?"
"Ay, lass, that you will. I'm by no means done with you yet. Are you
busy to-day? because I would like your help. I promised to get some
things for my mother, and I'm not good at choosing. Will you come with
me? Do you think you can be spared?"
"I don't know. I should like it. I can ask."
In a minute she returned, with a face made radiant by Mrs Lee's
cheerful consent to spare her for as much of the day as she pleased; and
it was arranged that John should call for her in half an hour.
If anything could have marred the delight with which her preparations
were made, the sight of her faded bonnet and shawl might have done so.
The rain and the snow had wet them, the sun had done its work on them,
and the wind had taken liberties with them, many a time. And besides,
they seemed too hot and heavy for such a summer day, even if they had
not been shabby and grey. For Christie had had other things to think
about of late than the getting of summer garments. Just for a minute a
wish that they had been newer and fresher-looking, for John's sake, came
to her mind. It was only for a moment that she thought about it at all.
"For John cares little for such things," she said to herself; "and
there's no matter for the shop-people and the rest."
She was right. Looking into the brightened face that met him at the
door, John failed to discover that the bonnet above it was dingy and
brown. And if the rustiness of the little shepherd's-plaid shawl that
covered her shoulders marred in any degree the pleasure with which he
drew her hand beneath his friendly arm, he gave no token that it did so.
Christie gave a little sigh of satisfaction as she found herself out on
the street once more.
"I have got so many things to ask about," she said; "but I suppose I may
as well wait till we have done with the shops. If I once begin, I'm
afraid I shan't be able to attend to anything else."
The purchases were soon made. Indeed, Mrs Nesbitt's commissions had
not been very extensive. Christie had more to do on her own account.
But she had planned so many times just what she was to get for each one
at home, that it did not take her long to choose. Besides, her purse
was not one of the fullest. Still, the little she had to do involved a
good deal of running here and there; and her parcels increased in number
and size to such an extent, that Christie at last said, laughing, she
would have to forego the pleasure of taking them home herself, as her
box would never hold half of them; John would need to try to find room
for them in his.
"And are you not afraid they may call you extravagant at home, getting
so many braw things?"
Christie laughed.
"I'm no' sure. But then--unless it's Aunt Elsie's gown--there's nothing
dear. They are just prints; the frocks and the other things are all
useful, except perhaps the playthings for the bairns; and they are
useful too, for things that give pleasure have a use, I am sure."
"It canna be doubted," said her friend, laughing.
Christie's face grew a little grave, after a rather lengthened
examination of the pieces left in her purse.
"There is just one other thing; but I fear I ought not to have left it
to the last. It's for blind Alice. I have thought about it so long.
It's not very far, we might ask the price of it, anyway."
It was true, the place was not very far; but it was a shop of greater
pretensions than any they had entered yet. Christie had set her heart
on a musical-box, which she knew would be a treasure to the blind child.
But the cost! It was altogether beyond her means, even if she were to
stay another month.
The disappointment was very great.
"Allie must have something that she can hear, you ken; and I had no
thought that it would be so dear."
"Why not send her a bird--a real canary?" said John, as they made a
pause at a low window in a narrow street, where a great variety of cages
were hanging.
"A bird?" repeated Christie. "I never thought of that. Are they very
dear?"
"We can ask," said John; and as Christie stood admiring the gay plumage
of some strange bird, he put the question to the person in waiting.
Christie did not hear his answer. John did not mean that she should.
"Could you spare two dollars, Christie?" said he.
"Two dollars!" she repeated. It was the wages of half a month.
"I have cheaper ones," said the man, "but he is the best singer I have
had for a long time. Or maybe you would like a pair?"
"A pair!" thought Christie to herself. If she could manage to get one
she would be content! As if to verify the words of his owner, the bird,
after hopping quickly from perch to perch, poured forth such a flood of
melody as Christie had never heard from a bird's throat before.
"Oh, how sweet!" exclaimed she. "To think of little Allie having music
like that all the winter long! But how can you carry it, John?"
Oh, John could carry it easily--no fear; and touched by Christie's eager
delight, or by some more powerful cause, the man let the cage go with
the bird.
So that was settled.
"We're done now, I suppose," said Christie, with a sigh, as they passed
along the shady side of the street. The excitement of pleasure was
passing out of her face; and more than ever before, since the first
glimpse he got of it, did John Nesbitt realise what a pale, weary little
face it was.
"I wish you were going home with me, Christie!"
"I wish I was, indeed! I wish I had spoken to Mrs Lee before! But I
couldna leave her, John, till she got some one else, she is so delicate
now. Sometimes I think I never could get courage to leave her at all,
if she were to ask me to stay."
"Ay, lass; but there's more to be said about that. They'll think at
home that you're forgetting them, if I tell them what you say."
Christie laughed.
"I'm not afraid. I don't think it would be right to leave her now; and
seeing you has given me courage for another month at least. You can
tell Effie that."
"I shall have two or three things to tell her besides that," said John,
looking down on her with the grave smile which she liked so much to see.
"I shall be sorry to tell her how pale and ill you look," he added, his
face growing grave as he looked.
"Oh, that's only because I am tired just now; and besides, I was always
`a pale-faced thing,' as Aunt Elsie used to say. You are not to vex
Effie by making her think that I am not well," she said, eagerly. "I
have not been used to walking far, lately, and I get tired very soon."
They were entering the large square at the moment, and John said:
"Can we go in there among the trees? I see seats there. Let us sit
down and rest a while."
"Oh, yes! I have been here before. Nothing reminds me so much of home
as the flickering of these shadows--not even the leaves themselves. And
how sweet the flowers are! Do you ken, John, I didna see the leaves
this year till they were full-grown? I can hardly believe that the
spring has come and gone again."
John Nesbitt was looking and listening, and all the time he was
considering something very earnestly. He had not many dollars at his
disposal, and the few he had he was not inclined to part with but for
value received. He was saying to himself, at the moment, that if it
should be decided that he was qualified for the work to which he had set
himself apart, he should need them all, and more too, before his course
of study should be finished. He had a vision, too, of a set of goodly
volumes, bound in calf, on which his heart had been set a year or more.
Untouched in his pocket-book lay the sum he had long ago set apart for
their purchase; and there was very little in it besides.
"There must be a limit to the pleasure a man gives himself. I can only
choose between them," said the prudent John to himself. To Christie he
said: "Have you ever been round the mountain? Would you like to go
to-day?"
"Never but once--in the winter-time; but I should like to go, dearly."
And the eager, wistful look in the eyes that through all the pleasant
spring-time had seen no budding thing, won the day.
"Well, I have never been round it either. So let us take one of these
carriages that seem so plenty here, and go together. It is well worth
the trouble, I have heard."
Christie's first look was one of unmixed delight, but soon it changed
into one a little doubtful. She did not like to speak her thoughts; but
in a little while she said, half smiling:
"Are you no' afraid that they may think you extravagant at home?"
"Indeed, no! At least, I'm sure Effie wouldna, if she saw your face at
this moment. It was well we had all those things sent home. Come."
And like a foolish fellow, he determined not to make a bargain for the
carriage while the prudent little Christie was within hearing, and so
had, I dare say, double to pay when he dismissed it. But the pleasure
was not spoiled, for all that.
"How pleasant it is!" said Christie, as the absence of street-noises and
the fresher breeze upon her cheek told her that they were leaving the
city behind them. Her short-sighted eyes could not take in the view
that charmed John so much. But she did not know how it could be more
pleasant than the fresh air and the gentle motion of the carriage made
it to her; and so she said, when at last she started up and looked about
her:
"Is not this the way to the cemetery? Oh, let us go there a little
while."
And so they did. The carriage was dismissed. They were to stay a long
time--as long as they liked; and then they could walk home, or perhaps
they might get the chance of a returning carriage. At any rate, they
would not be hurried.
How lovely the place looked to Christie's unaccustomed eyes! They were
not alone. There were groups here and there among the graves--some of
them mourners, as their dress showed, others enjoying the loveliness of
the place, untroubled by any painful remembrance of the loved and lost.
Slowly they wandered up and down, making long pauses in shady places,
lingering over the graves of little children which loving hands had
adorned. Christie wandered over the little nameless graves, longing to
find where her dear ones lay.
"How beautiful it is! It is a very sweet resting-place," she said to
herself, many times.
Yes, it was a very lovely spot. A strange feeling of awe stole over
Christie's spirit as she gazed around on the silent city. As far as the
eye could reach it extended. Among the trees and on the sunny
hill-sides rose many a stately monument of granite and marble, with, oh,
so many a nameless grave between! Close at their feet lay a large
unenclosed space, where the graves lay close together, in long,
irregular lines--men and women and little children--with not a mark to
tell who slumbered beneath. It was probably the burial-place of
strangers, or of those who died in the hospitals. To Christie it had a
very dreary and forsaken look. She shuddered as she gazed on the place.
"A friend's grave could never be found among so many," said she. "See!
there are a few with a bit of board, and a name written on it; but most
of them have no mark. I would far rather be laid in our own kirk-yard
at home--though that is a dreary place, too, when the sun doesna shine."
They moved on together; and in a place which was half in the sunshine
and half in the shade, they sat down. In a little while the pleasant
influence of the scene chased the dreariness from Christie's thoughts,
and she looked about with eyes that did not seem able to satisfy
themselves with its beauty.
"How lovely it is here!" she repeated. "How green and fresh everything
is! The very grass seems beautiful!" And she caressed with her hand
the smooth turf on which they were seated.
"It's a wonder to me how people can choose to live in the midst of a
town, with nothing to see that's bonny but a strip of blue sky now and
then."
"It's a wonder to me," said John, smiling.
"Oh, but I mean people that may live wherever they choose. There are
people that like the town best. Where it is right to stay, I suppose
one can be content in time. I think if I hadna home and the rest to
think about and wish for, I might be willing to live here always. But
at first--oh, I thought I could never, _never_ stay! But I am not sorry
I came. I shall never be sorry for that."
There was something in her earnest manner, and in the happy look that
came over her face as she spoke, that arrested the attention of John;
and he said:
"You have been happy here, then, upon the whole?"
"Yes; upon the whole," repeated she, thoughtfully; "but it wasna that I
was thinking about."
"Christie, do you know I think you have changed very much since you used
to come and see my mother? You have changed; and yet you are the very
same: there's a paradox for you, as Peter O'Neil would say."
His words were light, but there was a meaning in his grave smile that
made Christie's heart leap; and her answer was at first a startled look,
and then a sudden gush of happy tears. Then came good John Nesbitt's
voice entreating a blessing on "his little sister in Christ"; and this
made them flow the faster. But, oh, they were such happy, happy tears!
and very happy was the hour that followed.
Now and then there comes an hour, in the intercourse of friends with
each other, which reveals to each more of the inner and spiritual life
of the other than years of common intercourse could do; and this was
such an hour. I cannot tell all that was said. The words might seem to
many a reader tame and common-place enough, but many of them Christie
never forgot while she lived, and many of them John Nesbitt will not
cease to remember to his dying day.
Christie had no thought of showing him all that was in her heart. She
did not think that the friend who was listening so quietly to all the
little details of her life among strangers--her home-sickness, her fears
and weariness, her love and care for the children and their mother--was
all the time thanking God in his heart for all the way by which this
little lamb had been led to take refuge in the fold. She knew by the
words he spoke, before he rose to go, that he was much-moved. They came
back to her many a time afterwards, brightening the sad days, and
comforting her when she was in sorrow. They helped her to the cheerful
bearing of a disappointment near at hand.
As for John, he was far from thinking the day lost that he had devoted
to the pleasure of Christie. If in the morning the hope of possessing
at once the much-desired books had been given up with a sigh, it was the
sigh, and not the sacrifice, that was regretted now. With a sense of
refreshment unspeakable there came to his remembrance the Saviour's
promise that the giving of a cup of cold water to one of His little ones
should have its reward. To have supported those weary feet, if ever so
little, in the way, to have encouraged the faint heart or brightened the
hope of this humble child, was no unworthy work in the view of one whose
supreme desire it was to glorify Him who came from heaven to earth to
speak of hope to the poor and lowly. Nor was this all. He was
learning, from the new and sweet experiences which the child was so
unconsciously revealing to him, a lesson of patient trustfulness, of
humble dependence, which a whole library of learned books might have
failed to teach him.
The shadows were growing long before they rose to go.
"You'll be very tired to-morrow, I'm afraid," said John, as they went
slowly down the broad, steep way that leads from the cemetery. "I'm
afraid your holiday will do you little good."
"It has done me good already. I'm not afraid," said Christie,
cheerfully. "Only I'm sure I shall think of twenty things I want to ask
you about when you are fairly gone."
"Well, the best way will be to collect your wits and ask about them
now," said John, laughing.
And so she did. Matters of which her sister's letters and chance
callers had only given her hints were recalled, and discussed with a
zest that greatly shortened the way. They were not very important
matters, except as they were connected with home life and home friends;
but if their way had been twice as long, the interest would not have
failed.
"But, John," said Christie, at last, "what was it that Davie McIntyre
was telling me about Mr Portman's failure? Is it really true? and has
he left his wife and little children and gone--nobody knows where?"
"Yes, it is too true," John said, and added many painful particulars,
which he never would have given if he had had his wits about him.
Christie's next question recalled them, with a shock which was not
altogether pleasant.
"Was it not Mr Portman who had Aunt Elsie's money? Then she has lost
it, I suppose?"
"Yes, it's too true," said John, with an uncomfortable conviction that
Effie would far rather her little sister had not heard of it yet. He
did not say so, however, and there was a long silence.
"I wonder what Effie will do?" said Christie, at last.
"Now, Christie, my woman," said John, rather more hastily than was his
habit, "you are not going to vex yourself about this matter. You know,
if anybody can manage matters well, your sister Effie can; and she has a
great many friends to stand between her and serious trouble. And I
don't believe she intended that you should know anything about this--at
any rate, until you were safe at home."
Christie was sure of that. There was no one like Effie. John could
tell her nothing new about her goodness. But if it had been needful
that they should be separated before, it was still more necessary now
that she should be doing her part; and she intimated as much to John.
"But you must mind that Effie was never clear about your leaving home.
If she had had her way, you never would have left."
"I am very glad I came," was all that Christie replied, but in a little
while she added, "John, I think, on the whole, you may as well take all
the things home with you, if you can. The sooner they get them the
better; and something may happen to hinder me."
"Christie," said John, gravely, "Effie has set her heart on your coming
home this summer. It would grieve her sorely to be disappointed. You
are not going to disappoint her?"
"I don't know," said Christie, slowly. "I'm sure Effie would rather I
should do what is right than what is pleasant."
"But you are not well, Christie. You are not strong enough to live as
you have been living--at least, without a rest. It would grieve Effie
to see how pale and thin you are."
"I am not very strong, I know, but I shall have an easier time now; and
if Mrs Lee should take the children to the country or the sea-side, I
should be better. I am sure I wish to do what is right. It is not that
I don't wish to go home."
Christie's voice suddenly failed her.
"It seems like a punishment to me," she added, "a judgment, almost. You
don't know--Effie dinna ken even--how many wrong feelings I had about
coming away. I thought nothing could be so bad as to have to depend on
Aunt Elsie, and now--" Something very like a sob stopped her utterance.
"Whisht, Christie!" said John. "God does not send trouble on His people
merely to punish; it is to do them good. You must take a more
comforting view of this trouble. I am afraid the pleasure of the day is
spoiled."
"No! oh, no!" said Christie eagerly. "Nobody could do that. There are
some pleasures that canna be spoiled. And besides, I am not going to
vex myself. It will all come right in the end, I am quite sure. Only
just at first--"
"Thou shalt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee,
because he trusteth in Thee," whispered John.
"I know it;" and that was all she could say.