"I can't say all I wish to say. Though I see all this clearly myself, I
haven't the way of making it clear to others. But there is one thing
sure. It is just those who feel themselves to be helpless that have
reason to hope. `For while we were yet without strength, in due time
Christ died for the ungodly.' Why need any one hesitate after that?"
Little more was said; but if ever Christie prayed earnestly she prayed
for Gertrude at that hour. And afterwards, when they met again, in
circumstances well calculated to dispel all foolish shyness in speaking
about such things, Gertrude told her that she too was praying as she had
never prayed before. And the happy tears that stood in their eyes as
they spoke afforded good evidence that these petitions, though silent,
had not ascended in vain.
The days that followed the departure of Gertrude were uneventful ones.
Only one thing happened before spring came to break the quiet routine of
Christie's life. The little boy Claude loved her better every day, but
no better than she loved him. And as time passed on, and his health,
notwithstanding the frequent recurrence of bad days and sudden turns of
illness, continued steadily to improve, the influence for good which his
little nurse and her simple teachings had over him became more apparent
to all the household.
She was treated by Mrs Seaton with a consideration which she had not
been in the habit of showing her servants. Hitherto the daily drives of
the little invalid had been shared by his mother or Gertrude, while
Christie was expected during their absence to perform such duties in the
nursery as could not well be attended to while the children were with
her. But after Gertrude went away it was usually so arranged that
Christie should go with him. She was growing tall, but she was very
slender; and though she never complained of illness, it was easy to be
seen that she had not much strength to fall back upon. Grateful for her
loving care of her helpless little boy, Mrs Seaton spared her all
possible labour, while she trusted her implicitly in all that concerned
both children.
"If she were only a little stronger, I should consider myself very
fortunate in having a nurse in every way so suitable for my little boy,"
said Mrs Seaton many a time. And many a time, as the spring
approached, Christie said to herself:
"If I were only a little stronger!"
The one event that broke the monotony of her life after Miss Gertrude
went away was a visit from her sister Effie. The visit was quite
unlooked for. Christie returned from a walk with Claude one day, to
find her sister awaiting her in the upper nursery. To say that the
surprise was a joyful one would be saying little, yet after the first
tearful embrace, the joy of both sisters was manifested very quietly.
The visit was to be a very brief one. Two days at most were all that
Effie could spare from home and school. But a great deal may be said
and enjoyed in two days.
"How tall you have grown, Christie!" was Effie's first exclamation, when
she had let her sister go. "But you are not very strong yet, I am
afraid; you are very slender, and you have no colour, child."
"I am very well, Effie. You know I was always a `white-faced thing,' as
Aunt Elsie used to say. But you-- John was right. You are bonnier than
ever."
Effie laughed a little, but she looked grave enough in a minute.
"Are you lame still, Christie? I thought you were better of that."
"Oh, it is nothing, Effie. It is not the old lameness that used to
trouble me. I fell on the stairs the other day, and hurt my knee a
little, that is all. It is almost well now."
I could never tell of all the happy talk that passed between the sisters
during those two days, and if I could it would not interest my readers
as it interested them. Indeed, I dare say some of it would seem foolish
enough to them. But it was all very pleasant to Christie. Every
incident in their home life, everything that had taken place in their
neighbourhood since her departure, was fraught with interest to her.
She listened with delight to the detailed account of circumstances at
which Effie in her letters had only been able to hint; she asked
questions innumerable, and praised or blamed with an eagerness that
could not have been more intense had all these things been taking place
under her eyes.
The sunny side of their home life was presented to Christie, you may be
sure. The straits to which they had sometimes been reduced were passed
lightly over, while the signs of brighter days, which seemed to be
dawning upon them, were made the most of by Effie's hopeful spirit. The
kindness of one friend, and the considerateness of another in the time
of trouble, were dwelt on more earnestly than the straits that had
proved them. "God had been very good to them," Effie said many times;
and Christie echoed it with thankfulness. Nor is it to be supposed that
Effie listened with less interest to all that Christie had to tell, or
that she found less cause for gratitude.
At first she had much to say about Miss Gertrude and the little boys,
and of her pleasant life since she had been with them. But by little
and little Effie led her to speak of her first months in the city, and
of her trials and pleasures with the little Lees. She did not need much
questioning when she was fairly started. She told of her home-sickness
at first, her longings for them all, her struggles with herself, and her
vexing thoughts about being dependent upon Aunt Elsie. Of the last she
spoke humbly, penitently, as though she expected her sister to chide her
for her waywardness.
But Effie had no thought of chiding her. As she went on to tell of Mrs
Lee's illness and of her many cares with the children, she quite
unconsciously revealed to her interested listener the history of her own
energy and patience--of all that she had done and borne during these
long months.
Of Mrs Lee's kindness she could not speak without tears. Even the
story of little Harry's death did not take Christie's voice away as did
the remembrance of her parting with his mother.
"I am sure she was very sorry to part with me," she said. "Oh, she had
many cares; and sorrows too, I am afraid. And you may think how little
she had to comfort her when she said to me that I had been her greatest
comfort all the winter. She was very good and kind to me. I loved her
dearly. Oh, how I wish I could see her again!"
"You _will_ see her again, I do not doubt," said Effie, in a low voice.
Christie gave her a quick look.
"Yes, I hope so--I believe so."
After a little while, Effie said:
"If I had known how unhappy you were at first, I think I would have
called you home. But I am not sorry that you stayed, now."
"No; oh, no. I am very glad I came. I think after Annie went away I
was worse than I was at first for a little while; but I was very glad
afterwards that I did not go with her, very glad."
"Yes," said Effie, softly. "You mind you told me something about it in
a letter."
So, shyly enough at first, but growing earnest as she went on, Christie
told her about that rainy Sabbath morning when she went to the kirk,
where Jesus, through the voice of a stranger, had spoken peace to her
soul.
"I couldna see him with my blind eyes from where I sat. I shouldna ken
him if I were to see him now. But what a difference he made to me!
Yes, I know; it wasna he, it was God's Holy Spirit; and yet I would like
to see him. I wonder will I ken him when we meet in heaven?"
Effie could not find her voice for a moment, and soon Christie went on:
"After that everything was changed. It seemed like coming out of the
mist to the top of the hill. Do you mind at home how even I could get a
glimpse of the sea and the far-away mountains, on a fair summer morning?
Nothing was so bad after that, and nothing will ever be so bad any
more. I don't think if even the old times were to come back I should
ever be such a vexation to you again, Effie."
"Would you like to go home with me, Christie?" said Effie. Christie
looked up eagerly.
"Yes; for some things very much, if you thought best. I am to go in the
summer, at any rate. Would you like me to go now, Effie?"
"It is not what I would like that we must think about. If I had had my
way, you would never have left home. Not that I am sorry for it now,
far from it; and though I would like to take you with me--indeed, I came
with no other thought--yet, as there is as good a reason for your
staying as there ever was for your coming, and far better, now that you
are contented, dear, I am not sure that I should be doing right to take
you away before summer. They would miss you here, Christie."
"Yes," said Christie, with a sigh, "I dare say they would. But I must
go home when summer comes, Effie. Why, it is more than a year and a
half since I have seen any of them but Annie and you."
"Yes," said Effie, thoughtfully. She was saying to herself that for
many reasons it was better for Christie to stay where she was, for a
time at least. She had kept the sunny side of their home life in
Christie's view since she had been there. But it had another side. She
saw very plainly that Christie was more comfortably situated in many
ways than she could possibly be at home, to say nothing of the loss of
the help she could give them, and the increase of expense which another
would make in their straitened household.
Yet there was something in Christie's voice that made her heart ache at
the sad necessity.
"I don't believe it will grieve you more to stay than it will grieve me
to go home without you," she said, at last. "I have been trying to
persuade myself ever since I came here that I had better take you home
with me. But I am afraid I ought to deny myself the happiness."
It was not easy to say this, as was plain enough from the tears that
fell on Christie's head as it sank down on her sister's breast.
Christie had rarely seen Effie cry. Even at the sad time of their
father's death, Effie's tears had fallen silently and unseen, and she
was strangely affected by the sight of them now.
"Effie," she said, eagerly, "I am quite content to stay. And I must
tell you now--though I didna mean to do so at first, for fear something
might happen to hinder it--Mrs Seaton said one day, if Claude still
grew better, she might perhaps send him with me for a change of air, and
then I should be at home and still have my wages to help. Wouldna that
be nice? And I think it is worth a great deal that Mrs Seaton should
think of trusting him with me so far-away. But he is better, and I have
learned what to do for him; and he is such a little child we need make
no difference for him at home. Would you like it, Effie?"
Yes, Effie would have liked anything that could bring such a glow to her
sister's face; and she entered into a discussion of ways and means with
as much earnestness as Christie herself, and they soon grew quite
excited over their plans. Indeed, all the rest of the visit was passed
cheerfully. Mrs Seaton, after seeing and talking with Effie, confirmed
the plan about sending Claude with Christie in the summer, provided it
would be agreeable to them all.
"He has become so attached to her, I hardly know how he could do without
her now," said Mrs Seaton. "And I suppose nothing would make Christie
willing to forego her visit at home when summer comes."
To tell the truth, Mrs Seaton was greatly surprised and pleased with
the sister of her little nurse. She knew, of course, that Christie had
been what her country-people called "well brought up," and she had
gathered from some of Gertrude's sayings that the family must have seen
better days. But she was not prepared to find in the elder sister that
Christie had mentioned, sometimes even in her presence, a person at all
like Effie.
"She had quite the appearance of a gentlewoman," said Mrs Seaton. "She
was perfectly self-possessed, yet simple and modest. I assure you I was
quite struck with her."
The brief visit came to an end all too quickly. The hope of a pleasant
meeting in summer made the parting comparatively easy, and helped
Christie to feel quite contented when she found herself alone. She was
in danger sometimes of falling into her old despondent feelings, but she
knew her weakness and watched against it, and made the most of the few
pleasures that fell to her lot.
"I won't begin and count the weeks yet," she said to herself. "That
would make the time seem longer. I will just wait, and be cheerful and
hopeful, as Effie bade me; and surely I have good cause to be cheerful.
I only wish I were a little stronger."
The winter seemed to take its leave slowly and unwillingly that year,
but it went at last. First the brown sides of the mountains showed
themselves, and then the fields grew bare, and here and there the water
began to make channels for itself down the slopes to the low places. By
and by the gravel walks and borders of the garden appeared; and as the
days grew long, the sunshine came pleasantly in through the bare boughs
of the trees to chequer the nursery floor.
The month of March seemed long; there were many bleak days in it. But
it passed, as did the first weeks of April. The fields grew warm and
green, and over the numberless budding things in the fields and garden
Christie watched with intense delight. The air became mild and balmy,
and then they could pass hour after hour in the garden, as they used to
do when she first came.
But Christie did not grow strong, though often during the last part of
the winter she had said to herself that all she needed to make her well
again was the fresh air and the spring sunshine. Her old lameness came,
or else she suffered from a new cause, more hopeless and harder to bear.
The time came when a journey to or from the upper nursery was a
wearisome matter to her. Wakeful nights and languid days became
frequent. It was with great difficulty sometimes that she dragged
herself through the duties of the weary day.
She did not complain of illness. She hoped every day that the worst was
over, and that she would be as well as usual again. Mrs Seaton
lightened her duties in various ways. Martha, the nurse in the lower
nursery, was very kind and considerate too, and did what she could to
save her from exertion. But no one thought her ill; she did not think
herself so. It was the pain in her knee, making her nights so sleepless
and wearisome, that was taking her strength away, she thought; if she
could only rest as she used to do, she would soon be well. So for a few
days she struggled on.
But the time came when she felt that it would be vain to struggle
longer. After a night of pain and sleeplessness she rose, resolved to
tell Mrs Seaton that she feared she must go home. She was weak and
worn-out, and she could not manage to say what she had to say without a
flood of tears, which greatly surprised her mistress. She soothed her
very kindly, however, and when she was quiet again, she said--
"Are you so ill, Christie? Are you quite sure that you are not a little
home-sick with it, too? I do not wonder that you want to see that kind,
good sister of yours, but if you will have patience for a week or two, I
will send Claude with you."
But Christie shook her head. "I am not at all home-sick," she said.
"And I don't think I am very ill either; but the pain in my knee is
sometimes very bad. It grows worse when I walk about, and then I cannot
sleep. I am afraid I must go home and rest awhile."
"Is it so very bad?" said Mrs Seaton, gravely. "Well, the doctor must
see it. You shall go to him this very afternoon--or we may as well have
him here. If he thinks there is anything serious the matter, something
must be done for it, whether you go home or not. Don't be anxious about
it. I dare say you will be as well as ever in a day or two."
But the doctor looked grave when he examined it, and asked some
questions about it, and the fall on the stairs, which seemed to have
brought on the trouble. To Christie he said nothing, but his grave
looks did not pass away when she left the room.
"She must go home, then, I am afraid," said Mrs Seaton. "I am very
sorry to lose her. I don't know what Claude will do without her."
The doctor looked grave.
"Where is her home? Far-away in the country, is it not? It will never
do to let her go away there. She must go to the hospital."
"The hospital!" exclaimed Mrs Seaton. "Is it so very serious?"
"It may become very serious unless it is attended to. No time ought to
be lost. Could she go to-day, or to-morrow morning?"
Mrs Seaton looked very troubled.
"Must she go? She was brought up in the country. It seems necessary
she should have fresh air. I am afraid her health would suffer from
confinement. Could she not remain here? Of course, if she needs advice
she must not think of going home. But could she not stay here?"
"It is very kind in you to think of such a thing, but I am afraid she
will need more attention than she could possibly get at this distance
from town. She will be very comfortable there. Indeed, it seems to me
to be her only chance of a speedy recovery."
"But it seems unkind to send her out of the house, now that she is ill.
I can't bear to do it," said Mrs Seaton.
"Not at all, my dear madam. It is done every day; and very well it is
that there is a place where such people can be received when they are
ill."
"But Christie is very unlike a common servant. She is such a gentle,
faithful little thing; the children are so fond of her too."
"No one knows her good qualities better than I do, after what I saw of
her last winter. But really it is the very best thing that could happen
to her in the circumstances. Shall I tell her? Perhaps it would be as
well."
Christie was greatly startled when they told her she must go to the
hospital. Her first thought was that she could not go--that she must
get home to Effie and the rest before she should grow worse. But a few
words from the doctor put an end to any such plan. A little care and
attention now would make her quite well again; whereas if she were to go
home out of the reach of surgical skill, she might have a long and
tedious season of suffering--if, indeed, she ever fully recovered. She
must never think of going home now. She must not even think of waiting
till she heard from her sister. That could do no possible good, and
every day's delay would only make matters worse.
He spoke very kindly to her.
"You must not let the idea of the hospital frighten you, as though one
ought to be very ill indeed before they go there. It is a very
comfortable place, I can tell you. I only wish I could get some of my
other patients there. They would stand a far better chance of recovery
than they can do with the self-indulgence and indifferent nursing that
is permitted at home. You will be very well there; and if you have to
look forward to some suffering, I am quite sure you have patience and
courage to bear it well."
Courage and patience! Poor little Christie! The words seemed to mock
her as she went about the preparations for her departure. Her heart lay
as heavy as lead in her bosom. She seemed like one stunned by a heavy
blow. It destroyed the pain of parting with the little boys, however.
She left them quietly, without a tear, even though poor little Claude
clung to her, weeping and struggling to the very last. But her face was
very pale, and her hands trembled as she unclasped his arms from her
neck, and hurried away, saying to herself "Shall I ever see his face any
more?"