The house seemed very quiet after Mrs Seaton went away. For that day
and the next, Christie and her little charge were left to the solitude
of the green room and the garden. Miss Gertrude and Clement had gone to
visit their aunt, and not knowing when they might return, Christie was
beginning to wonder what she should do during the long hours that her
little charge slept or amused himself quietly without her. There were
no books in the green room--at least, there were none she cared for. In
the nursery there were a few story-books for little children--fairy
tales, and rhymes, with pictures of giants and dwarfs and little old
women, among which Christie recognised some that had been great
favourites long ago. But after the first glance she cared no more for
them.
On the morning of the third day, when Claude was taking his nap, the
time began to hang heavy on her hands. She took her Bible and read a
chapter or two, but in spite of herself she grew dull and dreary. The
stillness of the house oppressed her. The other servants were busy in a
distant apartment. She seemed quite shut in from all the world. Just
opposite the window was a large locust-tree, which hid the garden from
her; and the only sound that reached her was the murmur of the wind
among its branches, and the hum of the bees that now and then rested a
moment among the few blossoms that still lingered on them. Her thoughts
turned homewards.
"I might write to Effie," she said to herself. But she was not
sufficiently in the mood for it to go to her trunk for her small store
of paper and pens; and she sat still, with her head leaning on her hands
and her eyes fixed on the swaying leaves, vaguely conscious that the
indulgence of her present mood was not the best thing for her.
She was not permitted to indulge it long, however. The little boy
stirred and tossed in his crib, and she went to arrange the coverlet
over him; and as she was moving listlessly about the room, something
glistened in a stray sunbeam and caught her short-sighted eyes, and from
the cushions of the great easy-chair, where it had lain since the first
day of her coming, she drew the book that Miss Gertrude had been reading
when she watched the pretty picture she made as she sat beneath the
drooping leaves.
With a cry of delight, she recognised her old favourite, "The Lights and
Shadows of Scottish Life." The very same! though this was glittering in
blue and gold, a perfect contrast to the little, brown-covered book,
with the title-page lost, which had made Christie forget her bread and
her cooling oven on that unhappy day. But the remembrance of the old
time and the old favourite came back all the more vividly because of the
contrast. The memory of the old times came back. Oh, how long ago it
seemed since that summer afternoon when she lay on the grass and read it
for the first time! Yet how vividly it all came back! The blue sky,
with the white clouds passing over it now and then, the sound of the
wind among the low fir-trees, the smell of the hawthorn hedge, the
voices of the children in the lane beyond, seemed once more above her
and around her. And then the sound of her mother's gentle chiding, when
she found her sitting there after the shadows had grown long, came back.
Her voice, her smile, the very gown and cap she wore, and the
needlework she carried in her hand, came sensibly before her. Yet how
long ago it seemed! Christie remembered how many times she had taken it
with her to the fields, when the incompleteness of their fences during
the first year of their stay on the farm had made the "herding" of the
sheep and cows necessary that the grain might be safe. She had read it
in the woods in spring-time, by the firelight in the long winter
evenings, and by stealth on Sundays, when the weather had kept her from
the kirk. It was associated in her remembrance with many things
pleasant and many things sad; and no wonder that for a while she turned
over the leaves, catching only here and there a glimpse of the familiar
words, because of the tears that hid them.
Sitting on the floor, with the book held close to her face, she read,
and forgot all else. The little lad tossed and murmured, and
mechanically she put forth her hand and rocked him in his crib; but she
neither heard nor saw when the door opened and some one came in.
It was Miss Gertrude. A look of surprise passed over her face as she
caught a glimpse of the reader on the floor, but it gave place to
interest and amusement as she watched her. Her absorbed look never
changed, even when she rocked and murmured soothing words to the
restless child. She read on--sometimes smiling, sometimes sighing, but
never lifting her eyes--till Miss Gertrude came forward and spoke.
"Well, how have you been getting on?"
Christie started, as if it had been Aunt Elsie's voice she heard; and at
the look of astonishment and dismay that spread itself over her face,
the young lady laughed.
"How has Claude been, all these days?" she asked, softly, as she bent
over the crib.
"He has been quite well and quite good, I think," said Christie, trying
to collect her scattered wits.
"Has the doctor been here?" asked Miss Gertrude.
"Yes; he was here this morning. He asked when you were coming home, but
I couldn't tell him."
"Well, I'm here now; and I'm going to stay, too! If the doctor thinks
he is going to banish Clement and me from home for the next month, he
will find himself mistaken. For my part, I don't see the use of his
coming here so often, just to shake his head and look grave over poor
little Claude. Of course the child's mother wishes it; but it is all
nonsense."
Christie looked at her in astonishment. But that the words were so
quietly and gravely spoken, she would have thought them uncalled for,
not to say impertinent, from a girl scarcely older than herself. They
needed no reply, however, and she made none.
She did not then know that Mrs Seaton was not Gertrude's own mother,
and that she was only half-sister to the two little boys, upon whom she
looked as mere children, whilst she felt herself a young lady.
"Have you been lonely here?" she asked, in a few minutes.
"A little. It is very quiet," said Christie, hesitatingly. "But I like
it."
"Is Claude fond of you?" asked Gertrude, gravely.
Christie smiled a little.
"He does not object to me. I dare say he will be fond of me in time. I
am sure he will be very glad to see you and his brother. It is very
quiet for him to be left alone with me."
"But the doctor wishes him to be quiet," said Gertrude; "and his mother
won't have him vexed on any account. I have seen her quite tremble when
his brother has come near him; and after all it is no wonder."
"Clement is so strong," said Christie; "but he will learn to be gentle
with his brother in time. How very much alike they used to be! We used
to see them driving together. We didn't know their names, but we always
called them the two pretty boys."
"Yes, they were very much alike; and it will grieve Clement, when he is
older, to know-- Did you never hear about it? They were playing
together, and Claude fell. The doctor thinks that fall was the cause of
his illness. His mother can't bear to think so, it is so sad; and
besides, it seems to make his illness more hopeless. I am afraid he
will never be strong and well again."
"Oh, don't say so," said Christie, sadly, quite shocked at what she
heard. "Please God, he will be well again. He is only a child; and
children outlive so much. For two or three years no one thought I
should live to grow up. But I am quite well now."
"You are not a giant yet, nor very strong either. At least you don't
look so," said Gertrude.
"But I shall grow strong here in the country. I am better already since
I came. Do you really think that little Master Claude will never be
strong and well again?"
"I don't know. I cannot tell. But Aunt Barbara says the doctor is not
at all hopeful about it, though he speaks hopefully to mother. Aunt
Barbara thinks if the poor little fellow should live, he may be
deformed, or lame for life. I think it would be much better for him to
die now, than to live to be deformed or a cripple."
"I don't know. I can't tell," said Christie, looking with a vague
wonder from the sleeping child to the sister who spoke so quietly about
his great misfortune. "It is well we have not to decide about these
things. God knows best."
"Yes, I suppose so. It is in vain to murmur, whatever may happen. But
there is a deal of trouble in the world." And the young lady sighed, as
though she had her share of it to bear.
Christie's astonishment increased. Looking at the young lady, she said
to herself that it was doubtful whether she knew in the least what she
was talking about.
"Troubles in the world? Yes, doubtless there are--plenty of them! But
what could she know of them?"
"Are you fond of reading?" asked Gertrude, after a little time, her eye
falling on the book which Christie still held.
"Yes," said Christie; "I like to read. This is the book you left the
other day. I only found it a little while ago."
"Have you read much of it? There are some pretty stories in it, I
think."
"Oh, yes; I read the book long ago. It was one of our favourites at
home. I like to read anything about home--about Scotland, I mean."
"And so do I," said Gertrude. "I knew you were Scotch when I heard you
speak. Is it long since you came? Have you been here long? Tell me
all about it."
In the short half-hour before Claude awoke, there was not time to tell
_all_ about it, but the young girls told each other enough to awaken a
mutual interest.
Miss Gertrude's mother had died when she was quite young, and she had
been committed to the care of an aunt, with whom she had continued to
reside for some time, even after the second marriage of her father. She
had had a very happy home, and had been educated with great care.
Looking back on those days now, she could see no shadow on their calm
brightness. She had had her childish troubles, I suppose, but she
forgot them all as she went on to describe to Christie her merry life
with her young cousins and her friends. Her aunt's death had broken all
those pleasant ties, and she had come to Canada, which must be her home
till she was grown up. When she should be of age, she told Christie,
and could claim the fortune her mother had left her, she was going home
again to live always. She did not like Canada. It did not seem like
home to her, though she was living in her father's house. She longed
for the time when she should be her own mistress.
Christie didn't enjoy the last part of her story very well. She could
not help thinking that some of the trials that the young lady hinted at
existed only in her own imagination. But she did not say so. She
listened to the whole with unabated interest, and in return, told
Gertrude the story of her own life. It was given in very few words.
She told about her mother's death, and their coming to Canada, and what
happened to them afterwards, till they had been obliged to leave the
farm and separate.
It is just possible that the young lady, who sat listening so quietly to
these simple details, took to herself the lesson which the story was so
well calculated to teach. But Christie had no thought of giving her a
lesson. She told of Effie's wise and patient guidance of their affairs,
of the self-denial cheerfully practised by all, of her own eager desire
to do her part to help keep the little ones together, of Effie's slow
consent to let her go; all this, far more briefly and quietly than Miss
Gertrude had spoken of her childish days that were passed in her aunt's
house. By experience the young lady knew nothing of the real trials of
life. She had no rule by which to estimate the suffering which comes
from poverty and separation, from solitary and uncongenial toil. Yet,
as she sat listening there, she caught a glimpse of something that made
her wish she had said less about the troubles that had fallen to her
lot. Christie faltered a little when she came to speak of the first
months of her stay in town, and of the time when her sister went away.
"I was very, very home-sick. If it hadn't been for shame, I would have
gone at the end of the first month. And when my sister went away in the
spring, and left me here, it was almost as bad. It seems like a
troubled dream to look back upon it. But it has passed now. It will
never be so bad again--never, I am sure."
"You have got over your home-sickness, then? And are you quite
contented now?" she asked, with great interest.
"Yes, I think so. I think it is right to stay. I am very glad to stay,
especially now that I am out here, in the country almost. There was a
while in the spring that I was afraid I should not be able to stay. But
I am better now. I shall soon be quite strong."
The little boy stirred in his crib, and his eyes opened languidly.
Christie was at his side in a moment. To the astonishment of his
sister, he suffered himself to be lifted out and dressed without his
usual fretful cry.
"How nicely you manage him!" she said, at last. "This used to be a
troublesome business to all concerned."
Christie did, indeed, manage nicely. Her experience with the little
Lees stood her in good stead now. She was very quick, and gentle and
firm with the little boy, beguiling him from his fretfulness by little
tales or questions, or merry childish talk, till the last string was
tied and the last of his beautiful curls arranged. Then he was put in
his favourite place among the cushions of the great chair, and the chair
was drawn close to the window. Gertrude leaned over him for a moment,
and then, kneeling down, she kissed his little white hands, and stroked
his thin, pale face, her own looking grave enough all the while.
"He scarcely knows me now," she said. "He has almost forgotten me since
he has been so ill. But we shall be friends again, my dear little
brother."
"Where's Clement?" asked the child. "_He_ is _your_ little boy."
"Oh, but I want two little boys. I want a little boy to take care of
and love with all my heart--a gentle, patient little boy, who doesn't
fret and cry when he is dressed, any more. I want a little boy to take
into the garden in his little carriage, and to be my little boy always."
"Christie takes me into the garden. I like Christie she's good."
"I'm quite sure of it," said Miss Gertrude. "Listen: There is Clement.
Shall I open the door and call him in, if he will promise to be good?"
What a contrast they made! The cheeks of one flushed with health, his
bright eyes dancing with happiness, the other--oh, so wan and thin and
fragile! Miss Gertrude's eyes filled with tears as she tried to
restrain Clement's eager caresses. They were very glad to see each
other. Climbing up into the chair beside him, Clement put his arms
round his brother's neck and stroked his cheeks.
"You'll soon be well now, Claudie," he said, "and we'll go and see the
pony. Oh, such a fine fellow as he is! You're getting well now, aren't
you?" he added, wistfully.
"Yes, I'm well; but I am too tired," said Claude, laying himself back
among the pillows, with a sigh. Miss Gertrude lifted Clement down, and
held him firmly, saying:
"Clement is not going to tire you any more. He is going to be very
gentle and good when Christie lets us come in here; and by and by we
will go and sit under the locust-tree and be very good and happy all
together."
And so they did that afternoon, and many afternoons besides. A very
happy time they had. Far from banishing Miss Gertrude and little
Clement, the doctor encouraged them to be much with the sick boy. The
noisy Clement was permitted to become the almost constant companion of
his brother, on certain conditions. He was never permitted to weary him
or vex him. A walk with his brother was made the reward of good
behaviour; and banishment from the green room for an entire day was felt
to be so severe a punishment that it was not insisted upon more than
once or twice during the time of his mother's absence. Upon both the
boys this intercourse had a very beneficial effect. The little invalid
brightened under the influence of Clement's merry ways, now that the
watchful care of Miss Gertrude or Christie kept his mirth within bounds,
and prevented him from being wearied with too boisterous play.
The whole of the pleasant summer morning was passed by him in the open
air. Up and down the broad garden-walks he was drawn, when the weather
was fine. Sometimes he was content to sit for hours in the shadow of
the locust-tree near the window, or in the pleasant cedar walk at the
other end of the grounds. Sometimes he was permitted to walk a little
while on the lawn; and in a few days the dawning colour on cheek and lip
was hailed as a hopeful sign of returning health.
Christie grew quite satisfied with her new place, and devoted herself to
her little charge with an interest that was untiring; and the increasing
affection of the little boy made her service day by day more pleasant to
her.
Of Miss Gertrude she scarcely knew what to make. She was always very
kind to her, and spent much time with her and little Claude, either in
the garden or in the green room. But she was not gentle and pleasant to
all the world. She was sometimes full of impatient and discontented
thoughts, and now and then let fall words that proved this too plainly.
Christie was sometimes pained, and sometimes amused, as she listened to
her. Like too many young people, she had a keener eye for defects than
for excellences of character; and she never hesitated to amuse herself
at the expense of those with whom she came in contact. Sometimes her
remarks were amusing and harmless enough, but too often they were unkind
and severe; and more than once she tried to place in a ludicrous light
characteristics which she could not but acknowledge were real
excellences. Christie had an uncomfortable consciousness that there was
something wrong in all this, even amid the interest and admiration which
the young girl had awakened in her, but she was very far from realising
how wrong this spirit of criticism is, or how injurious the indulgence
of it might prove to Miss Gertrude.
These things, as they came up, marred but little Christie's admiration
of her bright and winning ways. The young lady's impatience and pride
were never manifested where she or the boys were concerned; and the
charm there was in constant intercourse with one of her own age was
delightful. Notwithstanding the difference in station, the two young
girls had many subjects of interest common to both, which they were
never weary of discussing.
The enjoyment of their companionship was not all on Christie's side.
Since her residence in her father's house, Miss Gertrude had had no
companions of her own age for whose society she cared. She was
constantly surprised and delighted to find how entirely her brother's
little nurse could understand and sympathise with some of her moods and
fancies. She brought out her favourite books and discussed her
favourite subjects, and spoke to her of many things as she had never
spoken to any one since she bade adieu to her young cousins at home.
It cannot be denied that Christie's evident admiration of her helped to
bespeak Miss Gertrude's good-will. But the young lady was not very
vain. She really liked Christie, and took pleasure in her society; and
she admired the tact and patience with which she managed Little Claude.
The first few days of their intercourse was to each like the reading of
a pleasant book; nor did their interest in each other fail as they grew
better acquainted.