The shadows were lengthening one September afternoon, when Effie Redfern
closed behind her the door of her school-room, and took her way along
the shady road that led to the cottage which for more than two years had
been her home. The air was mild and pleasant. The leaves on some of
the trees were changing. Here a yellow birch and beech, and there a
crimson maple betrayed the silent approach of winter. But the saddest
of the autumn days had not come. Here and there lay bare, grey fields
and stubble land, with a dreary wintry look; but the low pastures were
green yet, and the gaudy autumn flowers lingered untouched along the
fences and waysides.
It was a very lovely afternoon, and sending on the children, who were
inclined to lag, Effie lingered behind to enjoy it. Her life was a very
busy one. Except an occasional hour stolen from sleep, she had very
little time she could call her own. Even now, her enjoyment of the
fresh air and the fair scene was marred by a vague feeling that she
ought to hasten home to the numberless duties awaiting her.
These years had told on Effie. She was hopeful and trustful still, but
it was not quite so easy as it used to be to throw off her burden, and
forget, in the enjoyment of present pleasure, past weariness and fears
for the future. No burden she had yet been called to bear had bowed her
down; and though she looked into the future with the certainty that
these would grow heavier rather than lighter, the knowledge had no power
to appal her. She was strong and cheerful, and contented with her lot.
But burdens borne cheerfully may still press heavily; and quite
unconsciously to herself, Effie wore on her fair face some tokens of her
labours and her cares. The gravity that used to settle on it during the
anxious consideration of ways and means was habitual now. It passed
away when she spoke or smiled, but when her face settled to repose
again, the grave look was on it still, and lay there like a shadow, as
she passed along the solitary road that afternoon. Her thoughts were
not sad--at least, they were not at first sad. She had been considering
various possibilities as to winter garments, and did not see her way
quite clear to the end of her labours. But she had often been in that
predicament before. There was nothing in it then to make her look
particularly grave. She had become accustomed to more perplexing
straits than little Will's jacket could possibly bring to her, and she
soon put all thoughts of such cares away from her, saying to herself
that she would not let the pleasure of her walk be spoiled by them.
So she sent her glance over the bare fields and changing woods and up
into the clear sky, with a sense of release and enjoyment which only
they can feel who have been kept close all day and for many days at a
task which, though not uncongenial, is yet exhausting to strength and
patience; but the shadow rested on her still. It deepened even as her
eye came back from its wanderings, and fell on the dusty path she was
treading.
Amid all the cares and anxieties of the summer--and what with the
illness of the children and their narrow means they had not been few nor
light--there had come and gone and come again a vague fear as to the
welfare of her sister, Christie. Christie's first letter--the only one
she had as yet received from her--did not alarm her much. She, poor
child, had said so little that was discouraging about her own situation,
and had spoken so hopefully of being out of the hospital soon, that they
had never dreamed that anything very serious was the matter with her.
Of course, the fact of her having to go to the hospital at all gave them
pain, but still it seemed the best thing she could have done in her
circumstances, and they never doubted but all would soon be well.
As the weeks passed on with no further tidings, Effie grew anxious at
times, and wondered much that her sister did not write, but it never
came into her mind that she was silent because that by writing she could
only give them pain. They all thought she must be better--that possibly
she had gone to the sea-side with the family, and that, in the bustle of
departure, either she had not written, or her letter had been mislaid
and never been sent.
But somehow, as Effie walked along that afternoon, the vague fear that
had so often haunted her came back with a freshness that startled her.
She could not put it from her, as she might have tried to do had she
been speaking to any one of it. The remembrance that it was the night
of the mail, and that, if no letter came, she must endure another week
of waiting, made her heart sicken with impatient longing. And yet, what
could she do but wait and hope?
"And I must wait cheerfully too," she said to herself, as she drew near
home and heard the voices of the children. "And after all, I need not
fear for Christie. I do believe it will be well with her, whatever
happens. Surely I can trust her in a Father's hands."
"How long you have been, Effie!" cried her little sister, Kate, as she
made her appearance. "Mrs Nesbitt is here, and Nellie and I have made
tea ready, and you'll need to hasten, for Mrs Nesbitt canna bide long;
it is dark so soon now."
Effie's face brightened, as it always did at the sight of a friend, and
she greeted Mrs Nesbitt very cheerfully.
"Mrs Nesbitt has a letter for you, Effie," said Aunt Elsie; "but you
must make tea first. The bairns have it ready, and Mrs Nesbitt needs
it after her walk."
Effie fancied that the letter Mrs Nesbitt had brought came from some
one else than Christie, or she might not have assented with such seeming
readiness to the proposal to have tea first. As it was, she hastened
Nellie's nearly-completed arrangements, and seated herself behind the
tray. Mrs Nesbitt looked graver than usual, she thought; and as she
handed her her cup of tea, she said, quietly:
"You have had no bad news, I hope?"
"I have had no news," said Mrs Nesbitt. "Alexander told me there were
two letters for you in the post, so I sent him for them, and I have come
to you for the news."
As she spoke she laid the two letters on the table. One was from
Christie, but she broke the seal of the other one first. It was very
short, but before she had finished it her face was as colourless as the
paper in her hand.
"Well, what is it?" said her aunt and Mrs Nesbitt, in the same breath.
She turned the page and read from the beginning:
"My dear Miss Redfern,--I have just returned from visiting your sister
at the hospital. I do not think you can have gathered from her
letters how ill she is, and I think you ought to know. I do not mean
that she is dangerously ill, but she has been lying there a long time;
and if you can possibly come to her, I am sure the sight of you would
do her more good than anything else in the world. Christie does not
know that I am writing. I think she has not told you how ill she is,
for fear of making you unhappy; and now she is troubled lest anything
should happen, and her friends be quite unprepared for it. Not that
you must think anything is going to happen,--but come if you can.
"My dear Miss Redfern, I hope you will not think me impertinent, but
father wishes me to say to you that we all beg you will let no
consideration of expense prevent your coming. It will be such a
comfort to Christie to have you here."
There was a postscript, saying that the poor girl had been in the
hospital since the end of April.
"The end of April!" echoed Aunt Elsie and Mrs Nesbitt at once. Effie
said nothing, but her hands trembled very much as she opened the other
letter. I need not copy Christie's letter, we already know all she had
to tell. Effie's voice failed her more than once as she read it.
Fearing to make them unhappy at home, yet desiring to have them prepared
for whatever might happen to her, the letter had cost Christie a great
deal of anxious thought. One thing was plain enough to all; she was
very ill and a little despondent, and longed above all things to see
Effie and get home again. The elder sister having read it all, laid it
down without speaking.
"Effie, my dear," said Aunt Elsie, "you will need to go."
"Yes; I must go. How I could have contented myself all this time,
knowing she might be ill, I am sure I cannot tell. My poor child!"
Mrs Nesbitt looked at her anxiously, as she said: "My dear bairn, you
have nothing to reproach yourself with. You have had a very anxious
summer, what with one care and another."
Effie rose with a gesture of impatience, but sat down again without
speaking. She blamed herself severely; but what was the use of speaking
about it now? She took up Christie's letter and read again the last
sentence.
"It grieves me to add to your burdens, Effie. I hoped to be able to
lighten them, rather. But such is not God's will, and He sees what is
best for us all. I do so long to see you again--to get home. But I
must have patience."
"Have patience!" she repeated aloud. "Oh, poor child! To think of her
lying there all these weary months! How can I ever forgive myself!"
She rose from the table hastily. Oh, how glad she would have been to go
to her that very moment. But she could not, nor the next day either.
There were many things to be considered. They were too dependent on her
school to permit her to give it up at once. Some one must be found to
take her place during her absence. Sarah must be sent for at the
neighbouring village, where she had been staying for the last month.
The children and Aunt Elsie must not be left alone. There were other
arrangements to be made, too, and two days passed before Effie was ready
to go.
She saw Mrs Nesbitt again before she went, and her kind old friend said
to her some of the things she had meant to say that night when the
letters were read. She was able to hear them now. They would have done
no good in the first moments of her sorrow, as Mrs Nesbitt very well
knew.
"Effie, my bairn," said she, gravely, "you have trouble enough to bear
without needlessly adding to it by blaming yourself when you ought not.
Even if you had known all, you could not have gone to your sister,
except in the sorest need. Has there been a single day when you could
have been easily spared? And you could have done little for her, I dare
say, poor lassie. And you may be sure the Lord has been caring for her
all this time. He has not forgotten her."
"She says that in her letter many times," said Effie.
"My dear, there is a bright side to this dark cloud, you may be sure.
Whichever way this trouble ends, it will end well for this precious lamb
of Christ's fold. And you are not to go to her in a repining spirit, as
though, if you had but known, you could have done other and better for
her than the Lord has been doing. We cannot see the end from the
beginning, and we must trust the Lord both in the light and in the
darkness."
Effie made no answer for a moment. She then said, in a low voice:
"But I never felt sure that it was right for her to go from home. She
never was strong."
"But you were not sorry, when you saw her in the winter, that she had
gone. You mind you told me how much she had improved?"
"Yes; if I had only brought her home with me then. She must have been
worse than I thought. And it must seem to her so neglectful in us to
leave her so all the summer."
"My dear lassie," said Mrs Nesbitt, gravely, "it is in vain to go back
to that now. It has been all ordered, and it has been ordered for good,
too. The Lord has many ways of doing things; and if He has taken this
way of quickly ripening your little sister for heaven, why should it
grieve us?"
"But," said Effie, eagerly, "you did not gather from the letter that she
was so very ill? Miss Gertrude said not dangerously, and oh, I cannot
but think she will be better when we get her home again."
"That will be just as God wills. But what I want to say is this. You
must go cheerfully to her. If, by all this, God has been preparing her
for His presence, you must not let a shadow fall on her last days. It
is a wonderful thing to be permitted to walk to the rivers brink with
one whom God has called to go over--an honour and blessing greatly to be
coveted; and you must not lose the blessing it may be to you, by giving
way to a murmuring spirit. Not that I am afraid for you," she added,
laying her hand on Effie's arm. "All will be well; for I do believe
you, and your sister too, are among those whom God will keep from all
that can really harm. Don't vex yourself with trying to make plain
things which He has hidden. Trust all to Him, and nothing can go far
wrong with you then."
But it was with an inexpressible sinking of the heart that Effie, when
her hurried journey was over, found herself standing at the door of the
hospital. It was the usual hour when the patients are visited by their
friends; and the servant, thinking she was some one sent by the Seatons,
sent her up to the ward at once, without reference to the doctor or the
matron of the institution. Thus it was that with no preparation she
came upon the changed face of her sister.
If Effie should live to be a hundred years old, she would never forget
the first glimpse she had of that long room, with its rows of white beds
against the wall. Every one of the suffering faces that she passed
stamped itself upon her memory in characters that can never fade; and
then she saw her sister.
But was it her sister? Could that face, white as the pillow on which it
lay, be Christie's? One thin, transparent hand supported her cheek; the
other--the very shadow of a hand--lay on the coverlet. Was she
sleeping? Did she breathe? Effie stooped low to listen, and raising
herself up again, saw what almost made her heart cease to beat.
That which Christie had dreaded all these weary weeks, that which she
could find no words to tell her sister, had come upon her. "I shall be
a cripple all my life," she had written; that was all. Now the thin
coverlet betrayed with terrible distinctness her mutilated form. Effie
saw it, and the sight of it made the row of white beds and the suffering
faces on them turn round. She took one step forward, putting forth her
hands like one who is blind, and then fell to the floor.
The shock to Effie was a terrible one. For a while she struggled in
vain with the deadly faintness that returned with every remembrance of
that first terrible discovery. She was weary with her journey, and
exhausted for want of nourishment, having eaten nothing all day. Her
very heart seemed to die within her, and the earth seemed to be gliding
from beneath her feet. She was brought back to full consciousness with
a start, as she heard some one say:
"She ought not to have seen her. She must not see her again to-night.
She must go away and come again in the morning."
With a great effort she rose.
"No," she said, quietly and solemnly; "I cannot go away. I shall never
leave her again, so help me God!"
She rose up, and with trembling fingers began to arrange her hair, which
had fallen over her face. Some one gently forced her into a chair.
"You are not able to stand. It is in vain for you to make the effort,"
said the doctor. Effie turned and saw him.
"I am tired with my journey," she said, "and I have eaten nothing all
day; but I am perfectly well and strong. I cannot go away. I must see
my sister to-night. It was the surprise that overcame me, but I shall
not be so again."
There is not more than one woman in a thousand whose words the doctor
would have heeded at such a time. Effie was that one. Instead of
answering her, he spoke to the nurse, who left the room and soon
returned with a biscuit and a cup of warm tea. Effie forced herself to
take the food, and was refreshed. In a little while she was able to
follow the nurse to the ward, and to seat herself calmly by her sister's
bed.
Christie was still asleep, but happily for Effie she soon awoke. She
could not have endured many minutes of that silent waiting. There was
pleasure, but scarcely surprise, in the eyes that opened to fix
themselves on her face.
"Have you come, Effie? I was dreaming about you. I am very glad."
Effie kneeled down and kissed her over and over again, but she could not
speak a word. Soon she laid her head down on the pillow, and Christie
put her arms round her neck. There was a long silence, so long that
Effie moved gently at last, and removing her sister's arms from her
neck, found her fast asleep. The daylight faded, and the night-lamps
were lighted in the room. There was moving to and fro among the beds,
as the preparations for the night were made. But Effie did not stir
till the nurse spoke to her.
"Your sister is still under the influence of the draught the doctor gave
her. But we must waken her to give her some nourishment before she
settles down for the night."
The eyes, which Effie thought had grown strangely large, opened with a
smile.
"Will they let you stay, Effie?" said she.
"Nothing shall ever make me leave you again."
That was all that passed between them. Christie slept nearly all night,
but to Effie the hours passed slowly and sorrowfully away. There was
never entire quiet in the ward. There was moaning now and then, and
feverish tossing to and fro on one or another of those white beds. The
night-nurse moved about among them, smoothing the pillow of one, holding
a cup to the lips of another, soothing or chiding, as the case of each
required. To Effie the scene was as painful as it was strange. She had
many unhappy and some rebellious thoughts that night. But God did not
forsake her. The same place of refuge that had sheltered her in former
times of trouble was open to her still, and when Christie awoke in the
morning it was to meet a smile as calm and bright as that she had often
seen in her dreams. For a little while it seemed to her she was
dreaming now.
"If I shut my eyes, will you be here when I open them again?" she asked.
"Oh, Effie, I have so longed for you! You will never leave me again?"
"Never again," was all that she had the power to answer.
That day they removed her from the public ward to the room she had at
first occupied, and Effie became her nurse. They were very quiet that
day. Christie was still under the influence of the strong opiate that
had been given her, and worn-out with anxiety and watching, Effie
slumbered beside her.
On the second day they had a visit from Gertrude, and Christie quite
roused herself to rejoice with her over Effie's coming. When the young
lady declared, with delighted energy, that all Christie wanted to make
her quite well again was the face of her sister smiling upon her, all
three for a moment believed it. She was to have a week, or perhaps two,
in which to grow a little stronger, and then she was to go home with
Gertrude till she should be strong enough to go to Glengarry with Effie.
No wonder she had been ill and discouraged, so long alone, or worse
than alone, surrounded by so much suffering. Now she would soon be well
again, Gertrude was quite sure.
And she did seem better. Relieved from the terrible pain which her
diseased limb had so long caused, for a time she seemed to revive. She
thought herself better. She said many times a day that she felt like a
different person, and Effie began to take courage.
But she did not grow stronger. If she could only be taken out of town,
where she could have better air, Effie thought she might soon be well.
But to remove her in her present state of weakness was impossible. And
every day that followed, the doubt forced itself with more and more
strength on Effie that she would never be removed alive. The daily
paroxysms of fever returned. At such times she grew restless, and
sometimes, when she would wake with a start from troubled and uneasy
slumbers, her mind seemed to wander. A word was enough to recall her to
herself, and when she recognised her sister's voice and opened her eyes
to see her bending over her, her look of glad surprise, changing slowly
into one of sweet content, was beautiful to see.
She could not talk much, or even listen for a long time to reading, but
she was always quite content and at rest with Effie sitting beside her.
A visit from Gertrude or Mr Sherwood was all that happened to break the
monotony of those days to them. Once little Claude and his brother were
brought to see her. They had not forgotten her. Claude lay down beside
her, and put his little hand on her cheek, as he used to do, and told
her about the sea and the broad sands where they used to play, and
prattled away happily enough of the time when Christie should come home
quite well again. Clement was shy, and a little afraid of her altered
face, and gave all his attention to Effie. But the visit exhausted
Christie, and it never was repeated. Indeed, a very little thing
exhausted her now.
One day Christie awoke to find her sister watching the clouds and the
autumn rain with a dark shadow resting on her face. Her first movement
sent it away, but the remembrance of it lingered with Christie. After a
little time, when she had been made comfortable, and Effie had seated
herself with her work beside her, she said:
"Are you longing to get home, Effie?"
"No, indeed," said Effie, cheerfully, "except for your sake."
"But I am sure they will miss you sadly."
"Yes, I dare say they will; but they don't really need me. Sarah is at
home, and Katie and Nellie are quite to be trusted even should she be
called away. I am not in the least troubled about them. Still, I hope
we shall soon get home, for your sake."
"But without your wages, how can they manage? I am afraid--"
"I am not afraid," said Effie. "I left all that in safe hands before I
came here. Our garden did wonderfully well last year; and besides, we
managed to lay by something--and God is good. I am not afraid."
"And they have all grown very much, you say. And little Will! Oh, how
I should like to have seen them all! They will soon forget me, Effie."
Effie started. It was the first time she had ever said anything that
seemed to imply a doubt of her recovery. Even now she was not quite
sure that she meant that, and she hastened to say:
"Oh, there is no fear of their forgetting you. You cannot think how
delighted they all were when your letters came."
"They could not give you half the pleasure that yours gave me."
"Oh, yes, they did. We always liked to hear all about what you were
doing, and about the children and Miss Gertrude. Why, I felt quite as
though I had known Miss Gertrude for a long time when I first met her
here the other day. I almost think I should have known her if I had met
her anywhere. She looks older and more mature than I should have
supposed from your letters, and then I used to fancy that she might be
at times a little overbearing and exacting."
"Effie, I never could have said that about Miss Gertrude."
"No, you never said it, but I gathered it--less from what you said than
from what you didn't say, however. Has Miss Gertrude changed, do you
think?"
"No, oh no! she is just the very same. And yet I am not sure. I
remember thinking when I first saw her that she was changed. She looks
older, I think. I wonder if she will come to-day? She promised."
"But it rains so heavily," said Effie. "No, I don't think she will come
to-day. It would not be wise."
But Effie was mistaken. She had hardly spoken when the door opened, and
Gertrude entered.
"Through all the rain!" exclaimed Effie and Christie, in a breath.
"Yes, I thought you would be glad to see me this dull day," said Miss
Gertrude, laughing. "I am none the worse for the rain, but I can't say
as much for the horses, however. But Mr Sherwood was obliged to leave
in the train this afternoon, and I begged to come in the carriage with
him. Peter is to come for me again when he has taken him to the
station. See what I have brought you," she added, opening the basket
she carried in her hand. There were several things for Christie in the
basket, but the _something_ which Miss Gertrude meant was a bunch of
buttercups placed against a spray of fragrant cedar and a few brown
birch leaves.
"We gathered them in the orchard yesterday. They are the very last of
the season. We gathered them because Claude said you once told him that
they reminded you of home; and then you told him of a shady place where
they used to grow, and of the birch-tree by the burn. I had heard about
the burn myself, but not about the buttercups."
Coming as they did, the little tuft of wild flowers pleased Christie
better than the fairest bouquet of hothouse exotics could have done.
Effie laughed.
"Buttercups are not great favourites with us at home," she said. "They
generally grow best on poor, worn-out land."
"They are the very first I have seen this summer," said Christie, with
moist eyes.
They were all silent a little while.
"We were just speaking about you when you came in," said she to Miss
Gertrude.
"Were you? Well, I hope you dealt gently with my faults?" she said,
blushing a little as she noticed the glance which passed between the
sisters.
"We had not got to your faults," said Christie.
"Well, you must be merciful when you do. See, Christie, I have got
something else for you," she added, as she drew out a little book bound
in blue and gold. "I thought of you when I read this. There is a good
deal in the book you would not care about, but you will like this." And
she read:
"Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar Along
the Psalmist's music deep, Now, tell me if that any is, For gift or
grace, surpassing this--? He giveth His beloved sleep."
And so on to the end. "Do you like it?" she asked.
"Yes," said Christie. But her eyes said much more than that.
"It reminded me of the time I found you sleeping among all the noises
that were going on in the ward. There was talking and groaning and
moving about, and you were quite unconscious of it all.
"`God makes a silence through them all,'"
she repeated:
"`And never doleful dream again
Shall break his blessed slumbers, when
He giveth His beloved sleep.'"
There was a silence of several minutes, and then Christie said:
"Miss Gertrude, when you came in I was telling Effie that I thought you
had changed since I first knew you."
"And were you telling her that there was much need of a change?" said
Miss Gertrude, with a playfulness assumed to hide the quick rush of
feeling which the words called forth.
"Do you mind how we used to speak of the great change that all must meet
before we can be happy or safe? You don't think about these things as
you used to do. Miss Gertrude, has this change come to you?"
"I don't know, Christie. Sometimes I almost hope it has," said she.
But she could not restrain the tears. Effie saw them; Christie did not.
Her eyes were closed, and her hands were clasped as if in prayer.
"I was sure it would come," she said, softly. "I am very glad."
She did not speak again during Miss Gertrude's stay, and I need not
repeat all that passed between the young lady and Effie. There were
some words spoken that neither will forget till their dying day.
Before she went away, Gertrude came and kissed Christie; and when she
was gone Effie came and kissed her too, saying:
"You ought to be very happy, Christie, with all your trouble. God has
been very good to you, in giving you a message to Miss Gertrude."
"I am very happy, Effie," answered she, softly. "I almost think I am
beyond being troubled any more. It is coming very near now."
She lay still, with a smile on her face, till she fell into a quiet
slumber; and as she sat watching her, Effie, amid all her sorrow, could
not but rejoice at the thought of the blessed rest and peace that seemed
coming so near now to her little sister.