Chapter Eleven.
An unexpected visitor.
And now a sad silence fell on the household. The children were not to be brought home for some time, the doctor said; and their mother was not able to go to them; so Christie was left to the almost unbroken quiet of her forsaken nursery. She needed rest more than she was aware, and sank into a state of passive indifference to all things which would have alarmed herself had not her kind friend, Mrs Greenly, been there to insist that she should be relieved of care till her over-tasked strength should be in some measure restored. In those very quiet hours, thoughts of home came to her only as a vague and shadowy remembrance. The events of the winter, and even the more recent sufferings of the last month, seemed like a dream to her. Dearly as she had loved her little charges, she was hardly conscious of regret at their loss. It seemed like something that had happened long ago—their long suffering and departure. The very promises which had of late become so sweet to her, soothed her merely as a pleasant sound might do. She scarcely took note of their meaning or power during those days.
But this soon passed away, and with returning strength came back with double force the old longing to go home. She had sent a line to Effie when little Harry was taken ill, telling her how utterly impossible it would be for her to leave her place. Since then, about the time of the baby’s death, a neighbour had called, and by him she had sent the same message, assuring her sister that she was quite content to stay. But her old eagerness to get home came back, now that she found herself with little to occupy her, and she waited anxiously for the time when Mrs Lee might be spoken to on the subject.
In the meantime, Mrs Greenly was called away, and the duty of attendance upon Mrs Lee once more devolved on Christie. If anything could have banished from her heart all thought of home or all wish for change, the days that followed would have done so. Not an hour passed in which she was not made to feel that she was a comfort to her friend—for friends, in the highest sense, the mistress and her little maid were fast becoming. The readings and conversations which had been begun during their long watches together were renewed; and blessed seasons they proved to both. Christie never knew—never could know on earth—all the good she did Mrs Lee in those days. She was only conscious of an ever-increasing love for her and an ever-increasing desire to serve her.
If in the first agony of her bereavement there had been in the mother’s heart murmuring and rebellious thoughts, they were all stilled now. With more than the submission of a chastened child—with joy that had in it a sense of reconciliation and acceptance—she was enabled to kiss the Hand that had smitten her. She seldom spoke of her children; but when she did, it was with gratitude that they had been hers, and were still hers, in heaven. Seen by the new light that was dawning on her soul, the world, its hopes and fears and interests, looked to her very different. Humble submission and cheerful trust took the place of her old, anxious forebodings. Scripture truths, which formerly conveyed no distinct idea to her mind, came home to her now with power. They were living truths, full of hope and comfort. The promises were to her a place of rest and refuge—a strong tower, into which she could run and be safe. By slow degrees the light of the glorious Gospel of Jesus Christ dawned upon her soul; and to one fearful and doubtful of the future, as she had been, what blessed rest and refreshment was in the trust, that gradually grew strong, in the embrace of an Arm mighty to save! To know herself one of those to whom Jesus has given a right to say, “I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me,” was all that she needed for her consolation; and during those days the blessed knowledge came to her.
What part the simple words and earnest prayers of her little nurse had in bringing about this blessed change, God knows. The girl herself had little thought of the good which her entrance into the household had wrought. It might have helped her to a more patient waiting had she known how often her name was mingled with the thankful praises of Mrs Lee. She was not impatient, but a longing for home that would not be stilled mingled with the gladness that filled her heart at the thought of being useful.
Summer had come. June was half over, and the only glimpse of green she had had was the top of the mountain, far-away. Now and then Nelly brought home from the market a bunch of garden-flowers. But the sight of them only made her long the more for the fields where so many flowers that she knew had blossomed and faded unseen. More than once, when sent out by Mrs Lee to take the air, she had tried to extend her walk in one direction or another, till she should reach the country. But partly because she did not know the way, and partly because she grew so soon weary, she never succeeded. She had to content herself with the nearest street where there were trees growing, and now and then a peep through open gateways upon little dusty strips of grass or garden-ground.
Oh, how close and hot and like a prison the long, narrow streets seemed to her! How weary the street-noises made her! It was foolish, she knew, and so she told herself often, to vex herself with idle fancies. But sometimes there came back to her, with a vividness which for the moment was like reality, the memory of familiar sights and sounds. Sometimes it was the wind waving the trees, or the ripple of the brook over the stepping-stones; sometimes it was the bleating of the young lambs in the pastures far-away. She caught glimpses of familiar faces in the crowd, as she used to do in the home-sick days when she first came; and she could not always smile at her folly. Sometimes her disappointment would send her home sad and dispirited enough. Almost always the smile that met her as she entered Mrs Lee’s room brought back her content; but often it needed a greater effort to be cheerful than an on-looker could have guessed. Still, the effort was always made, and never without some measure of success.
One morning she rose more depressed than usual. A quiet half-hour with her little Bible was not sufficient to raise her spirits, though she told herself it ought to be; and she said to herself, as she went down-stairs, “I will speak to-day about going home.”
Mrs Lee was able to go down-stairs now. On this particular day a friend was to visit her, and Christie determined to say nothing about the matter till the visitor should be gone. But the prospect of a long day in the solitary nursery did not tend to brighten her face, and it was sadly enough that she went slowly down the street on an errand for Nelly when breakfast was over.
She did not look up to-day in her usual vain search for a “kenned face,” or she would never have passed by the corner so unheedingly. A pair of kind eyes, for the moment as grave and sad as her own, watched her as she came on, and after she passed. In a little while a very gentle hand was laid on her shoulder.
“What’s your haste, Christie, my lassie?”
With a cry she turned to clasp the hand of John Nesbitt. Poor little Christie! She was so glad, so very glad! It was almost like seeing Effie herself, she told him, amid a great burst of tears that startled the grave John considerably. For a moment her sobs came fast. The open streets and the wondering passers-by were quite forgotten.
“Whisht, Christie, my woman,” said John, soothingly, “that’s no’ the way we show our gladness in Glengarry.”
Drawing her hand under his arm, he held it firmly in his own. Christie made a great effort to control herself, and the face which she soon turned towards her friend had grown wonderfully brighter for the tears that fell.
“Effie bade me notice how you looked and what you said; and I’m afraid she’ll no’ be pleased to hear that I got such a tearful welcome,” said John, with his grave smile.
“Oh, Effie will understand. Why, it’s almost like seeing Effie herself to see you, John!” she repeated, giving him a tearful smile. She felt sure it was a true friend’s hand that pressed hers so warmly as she spoke.
“But where are you going, Christie?” asked John.
“Oh, I forgot; we are past the place.” But her face grew grave in a moment. “When did you come, John? and how long are you going to stay?”
“I came yesterday, and I shall stay no longer than I can help. I have had enough of this dusty town for once. I wonder how you ever stayed so long in it, Christie.”
“I wonder myself, whiles,” she said gravely; “but it won’t be long now.”
“Are they better at your house? Will they spare you to go home with me?”
“There is no one ill now. Did you hear—” But Christie’s voice was lost in the remembrance of little Harry and the baby.
“Yes, we heard. You must have had a sad time, poor lassie! But the remembrance of these precious little ones cannot be altogether sorrowful, Christie?”
“No; oh, no, indeed!” But she could say no more. As they drew near the house, she added:
“And shan’t I see you again, John?”
“Ay, lass, that you will. I’m by no means done with you yet. Are you busy to-day? because I would like your help. I promised to get some things for my mother, and I’m not good at choosing. Will you come with me? Do you think you can be spared?”
“I don’t know. I should like it. I can ask.”
In a minute she returned, with a face made radiant by Mrs Lee’s cheerful consent to spare her for as much of the day as she pleased; and it was arranged that John should call for her in half an hour.
If anything could have marred the delight with which her preparations were made, the sight of her faded bonnet and shawl might have done so. The rain and the snow had wet them, the sun had done its work on them, and the wind had taken liberties with them, many a time. And besides, they seemed too hot and heavy for such a summer day, even if they had not been shabby and grey. For Christie had had other things to think about of late than the getting of summer garments. Just for a minute a wish that they had been newer and fresher-looking, for John’s sake, came to her mind. It was only for a moment that she thought about it at all.
“For John cares little for such things,” she said to herself; “and there’s no matter for the shop-people and the rest.”
She was right. Looking into the brightened face that met him at the door, John failed to discover that the bonnet above it was dingy and brown. And if the rustiness of the little shepherd’s-plaid shawl that covered her shoulders marred in any degree the pleasure with which he drew her hand beneath his friendly arm, he gave no token that it did so. Christie gave a little sigh of satisfaction as she found herself out on the street once more.
“I have got so many things to ask about,” she said; “but I suppose I may as well wait till we have done with the shops. If I once begin, I’m afraid I shan’t be able to attend to anything else.”
The purchases were soon made. Indeed, Mrs Nesbitt’s commissions had not been very extensive. Christie had more to do on her own account. But she had planned so many times just what she was to get for each one at home, that it did not take her long to choose. Besides, her purse was not one of the fullest. Still, the little she had to do involved a good deal of running here and there; and her parcels increased in number and size to such an extent, that Christie at last said, laughing, she would have to forego the pleasure of taking them home herself, as her box would never hold half of them; John would need to try to find room for them in his.
“And are you not afraid they may call you extravagant at home, getting so many braw things?”
Christie laughed.
“I’m no’ sure. But then—unless it’s Aunt Elsie’s gown—there’s nothing dear. They are just prints; the frocks and the other things are all useful, except perhaps the playthings for the bairns; and they are useful too, for things that give pleasure have a use, I am sure.”
“It canna be doubted,” said her friend, laughing.
Christie’s face grew a little grave, after a rather lengthened examination of the pieces left in her purse.
“There is just one other thing; but I fear I ought not to have left it to the last. It’s for blind Alice. I have thought about it so long. It’s not very far, we might ask the price of it, anyway.”
It was true, the place was not very far; but it was a shop of greater pretensions than any they had entered yet. Christie had set her heart on a musical-box, which she knew would be a treasure to the blind child. But the cost! It was altogether beyond her means, even if she were to stay another month.
The disappointment was very great.
“Allie must have something that she can hear, you ken; and I had no thought that it would be so dear.”
“Why not send her a bird—a real canary?” said John, as they made a pause at a low window in a narrow street, where a great variety of cages were hanging.
“A bird?” repeated Christie. “I never thought of that. Are they very dear?”
“We can ask,” said John; and as Christie stood admiring the gay plumage of some strange bird, he put the question to the person in waiting. Christie did not hear his answer. John did not mean that she should.
“Could you spare two dollars, Christie?” said he.
“Two dollars!” she repeated. It was the wages of half a month.
“I have cheaper ones,” said the man, “but he is the best singer I have had for a long time. Or maybe you would like a pair?”
“A pair!” thought Christie to herself. If she could manage to get one she would be content! As if to verify the words of his owner, the bird, after hopping quickly from perch to perch, poured forth such a flood of melody as Christie had never heard from a bird’s throat before.
“Oh, how sweet!” exclaimed she. “To think of little Allie having music like that all the winter long! But how can you carry it, John?”
Oh, John could carry it easily—no fear; and touched by Christie’s eager delight, or by some more powerful cause, the man let the cage go with the bird.
So that was settled.
“We’re done now, I suppose,” said Christie, with a sigh, as they passed along the shady side of the street. The excitement of pleasure was passing out of her face; and more than ever before, since the first glimpse he got of it, did John Nesbitt realise what a pale, weary little face it was.
“I wish you were going home with me, Christie!”
“I wish I was, indeed! I wish I had spoken to Mrs Lee before! But I couldna leave her, John, till she got some one else, she is so delicate now. Sometimes I think I never could get courage to leave her at all, if she were to ask me to stay.”
“Ay, lass; but there’s more to be said about that. They’ll think at home that you’re forgetting them, if I tell them what you say.”
Christie laughed.
“I’m not afraid. I don’t think it would be right to leave her now; and seeing you has given me courage for another month at least. You can tell Effie that.”
“I shall have two or three things to tell her besides that,” said John, looking down on her with the grave smile which she liked so much to see. “I shall be sorry to tell her how pale and ill you look,” he added, his face growing grave as he looked.
“Oh, that’s only because I am tired just now; and besides, I was always ‘a pale-faced thing,’ as Aunt Elsie used to say. You are not to vex Effie by making her think that I am not well,” she said, eagerly. “I have not been used to walking far, lately, and I get tired very soon.”
They were entering the large square at the moment, and John said:
“Can we go in there among the trees? I see seats there. Let us sit down and rest a while.”
“Oh, yes! I have been here before. Nothing reminds me so much of home as the flickering of these shadows—not even the leaves themselves. And how sweet the flowers are! Do you ken, John, I didna see the leaves this year till they were full-grown? I can hardly believe that the spring has come and gone again.”
John Nesbitt was looking and listening, and all the time he was considering something very earnestly. He had not many dollars at his disposal, and the few he had he was not inclined to part with but for value received. He was saying to himself, at the moment, that if it should be decided that he was qualified for the work to which he had set himself apart, he should need them all, and more too, before his course of study should be finished. He had a vision, too, of a set of goodly volumes, bound in calf, on which his heart had been set a year or more. Untouched in his pocket-book lay the sum he had long ago set apart for their purchase; and there was very little in it besides.
“There must be a limit to the pleasure a man gives himself. I can only choose between them,” said the prudent John to himself. To Christie he said: “Have you ever been round the mountain? Would you like to go to-day?”
“Never but once—in the winter-time; but I should like to go, dearly.” And the eager, wistful look in the eyes that through all the pleasant spring-time had seen no budding thing, won the day.
“Well, I have never been round it either. So let us take one of these carriages that seem so plenty here, and go together. It is well worth the trouble, I have heard.”
Christie’s first look was one of unmixed delight, but soon it changed into one a little doubtful. She did not like to speak her thoughts; but in a little while she said, half smiling:
“Are you no’ afraid that they may think you extravagant at home?”
“Indeed, no! At least, I’m sure Effie wouldna, if she saw your face at this moment. It was well we had all those things sent home. Come.” And like a foolish fellow, he determined not to make a bargain for the carriage while the prudent little Christie was within hearing, and so had, I dare say, double to pay when he dismissed it. But the pleasure was not spoiled, for all that.
“How pleasant it is!” said Christie, as the absence of street-noises and the fresher breeze upon her cheek told her that they were leaving the city behind them. Her short-sighted eyes could not take in the view that charmed John so much. But she did not know how it could be more pleasant than the fresh air and the gentle motion of the carriage made it to her; and so she said, when at last she started up and looked about her:
“Is not this the way to the cemetery? Oh, let us go there a little while.”
And so they did. The carriage was dismissed. They were to stay a long time—as long as they liked; and then they could walk home, or perhaps they might get the chance of a returning carriage. At any rate, they would not be hurried.
How lovely the place looked to Christie’s unaccustomed eyes! They were not alone. There were groups here and there among the graves—some of them mourners, as their dress showed, others enjoying the loveliness of the place, untroubled by any painful remembrance of the loved and lost. Slowly they wandered up and down, making long pauses in shady places, lingering over the graves of little children which loving hands had adorned. Christie wandered over the little nameless graves, longing to find where her dear ones lay.
“How beautiful it is! It is a very sweet resting-place,” she said to herself, many times.
Yes, it was a very lovely spot. A strange feeling of awe stole over Christie’s spirit as she gazed around on the silent city. As far as the eye could reach it extended. Among the trees and on the sunny hill-sides rose many a stately monument of granite and marble, with, oh, so many a nameless grave between! Close at their feet lay a large unenclosed space, where the graves lay close together, in long, irregular lines—men and women and little children—with not a mark to tell who slumbered beneath. It was probably the burial-place of strangers, or of those who died in the hospitals. To Christie it had a very dreary and forsaken look. She shuddered as she gazed on the place.
“A friend’s grave could never be found among so many,” said she. “See! there are a few with a bit of board, and a name written on it; but most of them have no mark. I would far rather be laid in our own kirk-yard at home—though that is a dreary place, too, when the sun doesna shine.”
They moved on together; and in a place which was half in the sunshine and half in the shade, they sat down. In a little while the pleasant influence of the scene chased the dreariness from Christie’s thoughts, and she looked about with eyes that did not seem able to satisfy themselves with its beauty.
“How lovely it is here!” she repeated. “How green and fresh everything is! The very grass seems beautiful!” And she caressed with her hand the smooth turf on which they were seated.
“It’s a wonder to me how people can choose to live in the midst of a town, with nothing to see that’s bonny but a strip of blue sky now and then.”
“It’s a wonder to me,” said John, smiling.
“Oh, but I mean people that may live wherever they choose. There are people that like the town best. Where it is right to stay, I suppose one can be content in time. I think if I hadna home and the rest to think about and wish for, I might be willing to live here always. But at first—oh, I thought I could never, never stay! But I am not sorry I came. I shall never be sorry for that.”
There was something in her earnest manner, and in the happy look that came over her face as she spoke, that arrested the attention of John; and he said:
“You have been happy here, then, upon the whole?”
“Yes; upon the whole,” repeated she, thoughtfully; “but it wasna that I was thinking about.”
“Christie, do you know I think you have changed very much since you used to come and see my mother? You have changed; and yet you are the very same: there’s a paradox for you, as Peter O’Neil would say.”
His words were light, but there was a meaning in his grave smile that made Christie’s heart leap; and her answer was at first a startled look, and then a sudden gush of happy tears. Then came good John Nesbitt’s voice entreating a blessing on “his little sister in Christ”; and this made them flow the faster. But, oh, they were such happy, happy tears! and very happy was the hour that followed.
Now and then there comes an hour, in the intercourse of friends with each other, which reveals to each more of the inner and spiritual life of the other than years of common intercourse could do; and this was such an hour. I cannot tell all that was said. The words might seem to many a reader tame and common-place enough, but many of them Christie never forgot while she lived, and many of them John Nesbitt will not cease to remember to his dying day.
Christie had no thought of showing him all that was in her heart. She did not think that the friend who was listening so quietly to all the little details of her life among strangers—her home-sickness, her fears and weariness, her love and care for the children and their mother—was all the time thanking God in his heart for all the way by which this little lamb had been led to take refuge in the fold. She knew by the words he spoke, before he rose to go, that he was much-moved. They came back to her many a time afterwards, brightening the sad days, and comforting her when she was in sorrow. They helped her to the cheerful bearing of a disappointment near at hand.
As for John, he was far from thinking the day lost that he had devoted to the pleasure of Christie. If in the morning the hope of possessing at once the much-desired books had been given up with a sigh, it was the sigh, and not the sacrifice, that was regretted now. With a sense of refreshment unspeakable there came to his remembrance the Saviour’s promise that the giving of a cup of cold water to one of His little ones should have its reward. To have supported those weary feet, if ever so little, in the way, to have encouraged the faint heart or brightened the hope of this humble child, was no unworthy work in the view of one whose supreme desire it was to glorify Him who came from heaven to earth to speak of hope to the poor and lowly. Nor was this all. He was learning, from the new and sweet experiences which the child was so unconsciously revealing to him, a lesson of patient trustfulness, of humble dependence, which a whole library of learned books might have failed to teach him.
The shadows were growing long before they rose to go.
“You’ll be very tired to-morrow, I’m afraid,” said John, as they went slowly down the broad, steep way that leads from the cemetery. “I’m afraid your holiday will do you little good.”
“It has done me good already. I’m not afraid,” said Christie, cheerfully. “Only I’m sure I shall think of twenty things I want to ask you about when you are fairly gone.”
“Well, the best way will be to collect your wits and ask about them now,” said John, laughing.
And so she did. Matters of which her sister’s letters and chance callers had only given her hints were recalled, and discussed with a zest that greatly shortened the way. They were not very important matters, except as they were connected with home life and home friends; but if their way had been twice as long, the interest would not have failed.
“But, John,” said Christie, at last, “what was it that Davie McIntyre was telling me about Mr Portman’s failure? Is it really true? and has he left his wife and little children and gone—nobody knows where?”
“Yes, it is too true,” John said, and added many painful particulars, which he never would have given if he had had his wits about him. Christie’s next question recalled them, with a shock which was not altogether pleasant.
“Was it not Mr Portman who had Aunt Elsie’s money? Then she has lost it, I suppose?”
“Yes, it’s too true,” said John, with an uncomfortable conviction that Effie would far rather her little sister had not heard of it yet. He did not say so, however, and there was a long silence.
“I wonder what Effie will do?” said Christie, at last.
“Now, Christie, my woman,” said John, rather more hastily than was his habit, “you are not going to vex yourself about this matter. You know, if anybody can manage matters well, your sister Effie can; and she has a great many friends to stand between her and serious trouble. And I don’t believe she intended that you should know anything about this—at any rate, until you were safe at home.”
Christie was sure of that. There was no one like Effie. John could tell her nothing new about her goodness. But if it had been needful that they should be separated before, it was still more necessary now that she should be doing her part; and she intimated as much to John.
“But you must mind that Effie was never clear about your leaving home. If she had had her way, you never would have left.”
“I am very glad I came,” was all that Christie replied, but in a little while she added, “John, I think, on the whole, you may as well take all the things home with you, if you can. The sooner they get them the better; and something may happen to hinder me.”
“Christie,” said John, gravely, “Effie has set her heart on your coming home this summer. It would grieve her sorely to be disappointed. You are not going to disappoint her?”
“I don’t know,” said Christie, slowly. “I’m sure Effie would rather I should do what is right than what is pleasant.”
“But you are not well, Christie. You are not strong enough to live as you have been living—at least, without a rest. It would grieve Effie to see how pale and thin you are.”
“I am not very strong, I know, but I shall have an easier time now; and if Mrs Lee should take the children to the country or the sea-side, I should be better. I am sure I wish to do what is right. It is not that I don’t wish to go home.”
Christie’s voice suddenly failed her.
“It seems like a punishment to me,” she added, “a judgment, almost. You don’t know—Effie dinna ken even—how many wrong feelings I had about coming away. I thought nothing could be so bad as to have to depend on Aunt Elsie, and now—” Something very like a sob stopped her utterance.
“Whisht, Christie!” said John. “God does not send trouble on His people merely to punish; it is to do them good. You must take a more comforting view of this trouble. I am afraid the pleasure of the day is spoiled.”
“No! oh, no!” said Christie eagerly. “Nobody could do that. There are some pleasures that canna be spoiled. And besides, I am not going to vex myself. It will all come right in the end, I am quite sure. Only just at first—”
“Thou shalt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee,” whispered John.
“I know it;” and that was all she could say.