But I must not linger with Miss Gertrude and her troubles. It is the
story of Christie that I have to tell. They went the same way for a
little while, but their paths were now to separate.
For that came to pass which Gertrude had dreaded when Mr Sherwood went
away. It was decided that she should go to school. She was too young
to go into society. Her step-mother, encouraged by Miss Atherton, might
have consented to her sharing all the gaieties of a rather gay season,
and even her father might have yielded against his better judgment, had
she herself been desirous of it. But she was not. She was more quiet
and grave than ever, and spent more time over her books than was at all
reasonable, as Miss Atherton thought, now that no lessons were expected
from her.
She grew thin and pale, too, and was often moody, and sometimes
irritable. She moped about the house, and grew stupid for want of
something to do, as her father thought; and so, though it pained him to
part with her, and especially to send her away against her will, he
suffered himself to be persuaded that nothing better could happen to her
in her present state of mind than to have earnest occupation under the
direction of a friend of the family, who took charge of the education of
a few young ladies in a pleasant village not far from their home.
It grieved her much to go. She had come to love her little brothers
better than she knew till the time for parting drew near. This, and the
dread of going among strangers, made her unhappy enough during the last
few days of her stay.
"I can't think how the house will seem without you," said Christie to
her, one night, as they were sitting together beside the nursery fire.
Gertrude turned so as to see her as she sat at work, but did not answer
her for a minute or two.
"Do you know, I was just thinking whether my going away would make the
least bit of difference in the world to you?" she said, at last.
There was no reply to be made to this, for Christie thought neither the
words nor the manner quite kind, after all the pleasant hours they had
passed together. She never could have guessed the thoughts that were in
Gertrude's mind in the silence that followed. She was saying to
herself, almost with tears, how gladly she would change places with
Christie, who was sitting there as quietly as if no change of time or
place could make her unhappy. For her discontent with herself had by no
means passed away. It had rather deepened as her study of the Bible
became more earnest, and the strong, pure, unselfish life of which she
had now and then caught glimpses seemed more than ever beyond her power
to attain. When she tried most, it seemed to her that she failed most;
and the disgust which she felt on account of her daily failures had been
gradually deepening into a sense of sinfulness that would not be
banished. She strove to banish it. She was indignant with herself
because of her unhappiness, but she struggled vainly to cast it off.
And when to this was added the sad prospect of leaving home, it was more
than she could bear.
She had come up-stairs that night with a vague desire to speak to
Christie about her troubles, and she had been trying to find suitable
words, when Christie spoke. Her ungracious reply did not make a
beginning any easier. It was a long time before either of them said
another word, and it was Christie who spoke first.
"Maybe, after all, you will like school better than you expect," she
said. "Things hardly ever turn out with us as we fear."
"Well, perhaps so. I must just take things as they come, I suppose."
The vexation had not all gone yet, Christie thought, by her tone; so she
said no more. In a little while she was quite startled by Miss
Gertrude's voice, it was so changed, as she said:
"All day long this has been running in my mind: `Whosoever drinketh of
the water that I shall give him shall never thirst.' What does it
mean?"
"Jesus said it to the woman at the well," said Christie. And she added:
"`But the water that I shall give him shall be in him as a well of water
springing up to everlasting life.'"
"What does it mean, do you think--`shall never thirst'?"
Christie hesitated. Of late their talks had not always been pleasant.
Gertrude's vexed spirit was not easy to deal with, and her questions and
objections were not always easily answered.
"I don't know; but I think the `living water' spoken about in the other
verses means all the blessings that Christ has promised to His people."
She paused.
"His people--always His people!" said Miss Gertrude to herself.
"God's Spirit is often spoken of under the figure of water," continued
Christie. "`I will pour water on him that is thirsty!' and in another
place Jesus Himself says, `If any man thirst, let him come unto Me and
drink.' Such an expression must have been very plain and appropriate to
the people of that warm country, where water was necessary and not
always easily got."
Christie had heard all this said; and she repeated it, not because it
answered Miss Gertrude's question, but because she did not know what
else to say. And all the time she was trying to get a glimpse of the
face which the young lady shaded with her hand. She wanted very much to
say something to do her good, especially now that they were about to
part. The feeling was strong in Christie's heart, at the moment, that
though Miss Gertrude might return again, their intercourse could never
be renewed--at least not on the same footing; and though it hurt her
much to know it, her own pain was quite lost in the earnest desire she
felt in some way or other to do Miss Gertrude good. So, after a pause,
she said, again--
"I suppose `to thirst' means to earnestly desire. `Blessed are they who
hunger and thirst after righteousness,' you remember. And David says,
`As the hart panteth after the water-brook, so panteth my soul after
Thee, O God!' And in another place, `My soul thirsteth for Thee.'"