Yes, the time was drawing very near. Effie could no longer hide from
herself that Christie was no stronger, but rather weaker every day. She
did not suffer much pain, but now and then was feverish, and at such
times she could get no rest. Then Effie moved and soothed and sang to
her with patience inexhaustible. She would have given half her youthful
strength to have revived that wasted form; and one day, as she was
bathing her hands, she told her so.
Christie smiled, and shook her head.
"You will have better use for your strength than that, Effie. I am sure
the water in the burn at home would cool my hands, if I could dip them
in it. Oh, if I could just get out to the fields for one long summer
day, I think I should be content to lie down here again for another six
months! In the summer-time, when I used to think of the Nesbitts and
the McIntyres in the sweet-smelling hay-fields, and of the bairns
gathering berries in the woods, my heart was like to die within me. It
is not so bad now since you came. No, Effie, I am quite content now."
Later in the day, she said, after a long silence:
"Effie, little Will will hardly mind that he had a sister Christie, when
he grows up to be a man. I should like to have been at home once more,
because of that. They will all forget me, I am afraid."
"Christie," said her sister, "why do you say they will forget you? Do
you not think you will live to see them again?"
"Do you think so, Effie?" asked Christie, gravely.
Instead of answering her, Effie burst into tears, and laid her head down
on her sister's pillow. Christie laid her arm over her neck, and said,
softly:
"There is nothing to grieve so for, Effie. I am not afraid."
Effie's tears had been kept back so long, they must have free course
now. It was in vain to try to stay them. But soon she raised herself
up, and said:
"I didna mean to trouble you, Christie. I know I have no need to grieve
for you. But, oh! I cannot help thinking you might have been spared
longer if I had been more watchful--more faithful to my trust!"
"Effie," said Christie, "move me a little, and lie down beside me. I
have something to say to you, and there can be no better time than now.
You are weary with your long watching. Rest beside me."
Her sister arranged the pillow and lay down beside her. Clasping her
wasted arms about her neck, Christie said:
"Effie, you don't often say wrong or foolish things, but what you said
just now was both wrong and foolish. You must never say it or think it
any more. Have I not been in safe keeping, think you? Nay! do not
grieve me by saying that again," she added, laying her hand upon her
sister's lips, as she would have spoken. "It all seems so right and
safe to me, I would not have anything changed now, except that I should
like to see them all at home. And I dare say that will pass away as the
end draws near. It will not be long now, Effie." She paused from
exhaustion, only adding: "I am not afraid."
The much she had to say was not said that night. The sisters lay
silently in each other's arms, and while Christie slumbered, Effie
prayed as she had never prayed before, that she might be made submissive
to the will of God in this great sorrow that was drawing nearer day by
day.
After this they spoke much of the anticipated parting, but never sadly
any more. Effie's prayers were answered. God's grace did for her what,
unaided, she never could have done for herself. It gave her power to
watch the shadow of death drawing nearer and nearer, without shrinking
from the sight. I do not mean that she felt no pain at the thought of
going back to her home alone, or that she had quite ceased to blame
herself for what she called her neglect of her suffering sister. Many a
long struggle did she pass through during the hours when Christie
slumbered. But she never again suffered a regretful word to pass her
lips; she never for a moment let a cloud rest on her face when
Christie's eyes were matching her. She had soothing words for the poor
child's restless moments. If a doubt or fear came to disturb her quiet
trust, she had words of cheer to whisper; and when--as oftenest
happened--her peace was like a river, full and calm and deep, no
murmurs, no repining, fell from the loving sister's lips to disturb its
gentle flow.
And little by little, as the uneventful days glided by peace, and more
than peace--gratitude and loving praise--filled the heart of Christie's
sister. What could she wish more for the child so loved than such quiet
and happy waiting for the end of all trouble? A little while sooner or
later, what did it matter? What could she wish more or better for any
one she loved? It would ill become her to repine at her loss, so
infinitely her sister's gain.
The discipline of these weeks in her sister's sick-room did very much
for Effie. Ever since their mother's death, and more especially since
their coming to Canada, a great deal had depended on her. Wise to plan
and strong to execute, she had done what few young girls in her sphere
could have done. Her energy had never flagged. She delighted to
encounter and overcome difficulties; she was strong, prudent, and
far-seeing, and she was fast acquiring the reputation, among her friends
and neighbours, of a rare business woman.
It is just possible that, as the years passed, she might have acquired
some of the unpleasing qualities so apt to become the characteristic of
the woman who has no one to come between her and the cares of business
or the shifts and difficulties incident to the providing for a family
whose means are limited. Coming in contact, as she had to do, with a
world not always mindful of the claims of others, she found it necessary
to stand her ground and hold her own with a firmness that might seem
hardly compatible with gentleness. Her position, too, as the teacher of
a school--the queen of a little realm where her word was law--tended to
cultivate in her strength and firmness of character rather than the more
womanly qualities. It is doubtful whether, without the sweet and solemn
break in the routine of her life which these months in her sister's
sick-room made, she would ever have grown into the woman she afterwards
became. This long and patient waiting for God's messenger gave her the
time for thought which her busy life denied her.
Now and then, during the quiet talks in which, during her more
comfortable hours, they could still indulge, there was revealed to Effie
all the way by which God had led her sister; at the same time there was
revealed all that He had permitted her to do for His glory, and at this
she was greatly moved. She had only been a little servant-maid, plain
and humble and obscure. There was nothing to distinguish her in the
eyes of those who saw her from day to day. Yet God had greatly honoured
her. He had made her a messenger of grace to one, to two--perhaps to
more. When that little, worn-out frame was laid aside, it might be,
thought Effie, that the immortal spirit, crowned and radiant, should
stand nearer to the throne than some who were held in honour by the wise
and the good of this world.
Sitting there, listening and musing, Effie saw, more clearly than she
ever could have seen in the bustle of her busy life, how infinitely
desirable it is to be permitted to do God's work in the world. Those
were days never to be forgotten by her. She grew thin and wan with
confinement and watching, but as the time drew near when her present
care should cease and she should go home again, her face wore a look of
peace beautiful to see.
"Effie," said Christie one day, after she had been silently watching her
a little while, "you are more willing that I should go now, I think?"
Effie started.
"I shall be willing when the time comes, my dear sister, I do not
doubt," she said, with lips that smiled, though they quivered too. "I
cannot help being willing, and glad, for your sake."
"And you ought to be glad for your sake too," said Christie. "You will
have one less to care for, to be anxious about, Effie, and I shall be
safe with our dear father and mother in the better world. I never could
have helped you much, dear, though I would have liked to do so. I never
should have been very strong, I dare say, and--I might have been a
burden."
"But if you had been running about in the fields with the bairns all
this time, who knows but you would have been as strong as any of them?"
said Effie, sadly.
But Christie shook her head.
"No; I have had nothing to harm me. And sometimes I used to think if I
had stayed at home I might have fallen back into my old fretful ways,
and so have been a vexation to myself and to Aunt Elsie; and to you
even, Effie, though you never used to be vexed with me."
"No, Christie, that could never have happened. God is faithful, and
with His grace, all would have been well with you. There would have
been no more such sad days for you."
"No such day as that when you came home with the book-man and gave me my
Bible," said Christie, smiling, "I wonder why I always mind that day so
well? I suppose because it was the beginning of it all."
Effie did not ask, "The beginning of what?" She knew well that she
meant the beginning of the new life which God, by His Word and Spirit,
had wrought in her heart. Soon Christie added:
"I wouldn't have anything changed now. It has all happened just in the
best way; and this quiet time will do you good too, dear."
"I pray God it may!" said Effie, letting both tears and kisses fall upon
her sister's face.
"And you must tell Annie and Sarah and the bairns that they must be sure
to come to us--our father and mother and me, and to Jesus--the
Mediator--of the new covenant," she slowly said; and overcome with
weariness, she sank into a quiet sleep.
Christie grew weaker every day. She did not suffer much, and slept most
of the time. Sometimes she was feverish and restless, and then Effie
used to fancy that her mind wandered. At such times she would tell of
things that happened long ago, and speak to Effie as she might have
spoken to her mother during her childish illnesses, begging to be taken
into her arms and rocked to sleep.
But almost always she knew her sister, even when she had forgotten where
she was. Once she said there was just one place in the world where she
could rest, and begged to be laid on the sofa in Mrs Nesbitt's parlour
at home. Often she begged her to let her dip her hands in the burn to
cool them, or to take her where it was pleasant and cool, under the
shadow of the birch-tree in the pasture at home. But a single word from
Effie was always enough to soothe her, and to call up the loving smile.
Christmas came and went, and the last day of the old year found her
still waiting, but with many a token that the close was drawing near.
Gertrude came that day, and lingered long beside her, awed by the
strange mysterious change that was beginning to show itself on her face.
Christie did not notice her as she came in, and even Effie only
silently held out her hand to her as she drew near.
"She will never speak again," said the nurse, who had been watching her
for several minutes.
All pain, all restlessness, seemed past. Effie, bending over her, could
only now and then moisten her parched lips and wipe the damp from her
forehead. Poor Effie! she saw the hour was at hand, but she was very
calm. "She has not spoken since daybreak," she said, softly. "I am
afraid she will never speak again." But she did.
After a brief but quiet sleep she opened her eyes. Gertrude knew that
she was recognised. Stooping down to catch the broken words that came
from her parched lips, she distinctly heard:
"I was sure always--from the very first--that God would bless you. And
now--though I am going to die--you will do all for Christ--that I would
like to have done."
Effie was refreshed and strengthened by two or three hours of quiet
sleep. The day passed, the evening came and went, and Christie gave no
sign of pain or restlessness.
"It will be about the turn of the night," said the nurse, raising the
night-lamp to look on her face. But it was not. At the turn of the
night she awoke, and called her sister by name. Effie's face was on the
pillow beside her, and she kissed her softly, without speaking.
Christie fondly returned her caress. She seemed strangely revived.
"Effie," she said, "do you remember something that our mother used to
sing to us--?
"`No dimming clouds o'ershadow thee,
No dull and darksome night,
But every soul shines as the sun,
And God Himself is light.'"
Yes, Effie remembered it well, and she went on, with no break in her
voice, as Christie ceased:
"`No pain, no pang, no bitter grief,
No woeful night is there;
No sob, no sigh, no cry is heard;
No will-awa', no care!'"
And many a verse more of that quaint, touching old canticle did she
sing, all the time watching the smile of wonderful content that was
beautifying the dying face.
"You are quite willing now, Effie?" she said, softly.
"Quite willing," said Effie, softly.
"And it is coming very near now!"
"Very near, love. Very near now!"
"Very near!" She never spoke again. She lingered till the dawn of the
new year's morning, all the time lying like a child slumbering in the
nurse's arms, and then she died.
They did not lay her to rest among the many nameless graves which had
seemed so sad and dreary to her in the beautiful burial-place one summer
day. The spotless snow near her father's grave was disturbed on a
winter's morning, and Christie was laid to rest beside him.
There she has lain through many a summer and winter, but her remembrance
has not perished from the earth. There are loving hearts on both sides
of the sea who still cherish her memory. Gertrude--no longer Miss
Gertrude, however--in the new home she has found, tells the little
children at her knee of her little brother Claude and his nurse, who
loved each other so dearly on earth, and who now are doubtless loving
each other in heaven; and in a fair Canadian manse a grave and beautiful
woman often tells, with softened voice, the sad yet happy tale of the
sister who went away and who never came home again, but who found a
better home in her Father's house above.