Chapter Fifteen.
Peeps into Fairy-land.
“Christie,” said Gertrude, coming into the green room just as the little nurse had arranged the crib for Claude’s mid-day nap, “did you ever read ‘The Lady of the Lake’?”
Christie was sitting down, with a basket of little socks and a bunch of darning-cotton in her hand, and she looked up eagerly as she entered.
“No, I never read it; but I have heard of it. It is a nice book, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Get your work ready, and I’ll tell Martha to look after Clement for the next two hours, and I will read to you while Claude sleeps. I have read it once; but I would like to read it again.”
And she did read it. Soon Christie’s socks and darning-cotton were forgotten, and she sat listening intently. It was something entirely new to her, and she yielded herself to the charm of the book with an eagerness that delighted the reader. Miss Gertrude liked the book at the second reading even better than at the first. She enjoyed it this time for herself and Christie too.
“There seems so much more in a book when you have anybody to enjoy it with you,” she said, at the end of an hour. “But I am tired of reading aloud. You must take it a while now.”
“But I have got out of the way of reading aloud,” said Christie; “and besides, I do not read so well as you.”
“Oh, never mind; you’ll read well enough. And give me the basket; I’ll darn your socks in the meantime.”
“The socks? Oh, I had forgotten them! But there is very little to do. I’ll read a while if you like; but I know I don’t read so well as you.”
She took the book, however, and another hour passed rapidly away. She shut the book with a sigh when Claude moved.
This was the first of many such readings. During the hours when Claude was asleep and Clement under the immediate superintendence of Martha, Miss Gertrude brought her book into the green room and shared the pleasure it gave her with her little brother’s nurse. And at other times, too, when the little boys were amusing themselves together in the garden, they read and discussed their books, sitting in the cedar walk, or under the shadow of the locust-tree. And a very pleasant month they had. Christie had great enjoyment in all this; and apparently Miss Gertrude had no less; for she refused several invitations, and broke more than one engagement with her aunt, rather than interfere with these new arrangements.
But one day Miss Gertrude came into the green room with a cloud upon her brow. It was plain that something was the matter.
“It has been a great deal too pleasant to last long,” she said, throwing down a letter which she held in her hand. “Here is papa coming home immediately. I wouldn’t mind his coming,” she added, checked by the look of surprise on Christie’s face. “I shall be very glad to see him; and he won’t make much difference—he is so seldom at home. Besides, he will let me please myself about things. He has no fancy for my going here and there at everybody’s bidding. But Mr Sherwood is coming with him—Mrs Seaton’s cousin—a very disagreeable person; at least, I think so. Mamma thinks him wonderfully good, and he is a great favourite with papa, too. I am sure I don’t know why. I think he is conceited; and he is an Englishman, besides.”
Christie laughed.
“That’s not a very good reason.”
“Perhaps not. But he has such a cool, indifferent way of asserting the superiority of the English over all other nations, as though the question need not be discussed. ‘It must be quite evident to everybody,’ his manner seems to say.”
After a pause, Miss Gertrude continued:
“And that is not all. He is very meddlesome. He is always telling mamma what ought to be expected from a young lady like me, and getting her to annoy me about lessons and other things; at least, I think so. I know he thinks me quite childish; and sometimes he interferes between Clement and me. What do you think he had the impertinence to say to me once? That no one was fit to govern who had not learned to obey. That it would be wiser for me to learn the lesson of obedience myself, than to attempt to teach it to my little brother.”
“And what answer did you make?” asked Christie, after a little hesitation.
“I turned and walked out of the room; and I did not see him again. I chose to be out of the way when he came to say good-bye. I dare say that is one reason why I don’t like the thought of his coming just now. I feel a little awkward, you know. I owe him one good turn, however. If it had not been for him, I think father would have listened to Aunt Barbara and sent me to school. I ought to thank him for that.”
“And didn’t you want to go to school?” asked Christie, in some surprise.
“No, indeed! I never was at school, you know. We had a governess and teachers at home. I am to have private teachers for some things here, when the summer is over, unless I should be sent to school, after all.”
When the gentleman made his appearance among them the next day, he did not look like the formidable person Christie imagined him to be. They were sitting on the lawn, in the shadow of the locust-tree, when he arrived; and before he went into the house he came and shook hands with Miss Gertrude and the little boys. Christie thought he must have quite forgotten his falling-out with the young lady, he met her so pleasantly and frankly. The embarrassment was all on her side.
As for the boys, they were beside themselves with delight. It was easy to see they did not share their sister’s dislike. Poor little Claude clasped his arms about his neck and kissed him eagerly. Clement, in a way that showed he felt sure of his sympathy, began to tell him of the pony and the rabbits, insisting that he should come with him to the stable to see them at once.
The next day was Sunday. After a fortnight of lovely summer weather, a great change had taken place. The rain was falling in torrents, and the wind was whistling through the trees in the garden, when Christie looked out. A rainy day in the green room was by no means such a dreary matter as it used to be in Mrs Lee’s attic-nursery, with only a glimpse of driving clouds and dripping roofs to vary the dulness within. So Christie comforted little Claude for the want of his morning ride and ramble in the garden, telling him how glad the dusty leaves and thirsty little flowers would be for all the bright drops that were falling on them. She told him how the bees, that had been so busy all the week, must take a rest to-day, and how warm and dry the little birds would be in their nest in the pear-tree, for all the driving rain. Setting him in his favourite chair by the window, she amused him with talk like this, as she went about putting things in order in the room. While she comforted him she comforted herself; for the rain had brought a disappointment to her too. It had been arranged that Martha should take charge of Claude while Christie went to church in the morning, where she had not been for several Sabbaths. But remembering Mrs Greenly’s oft-repeated warnings against exposing herself to dampness, she did not like to venture in the rain. So she had to content herself at home.
This was an easier matter than it had sometimes been. As the morning wore away, and the time approached for the little boy to take his usual sleep, she was quite contented to be where she was.
“It is very pleasant, all this reading with Miss Gertrude,” she said. “She is very kind, and I like her very much. But I shall be glad to be alone for a little while.”
Claude’s eyes closed at last, and she was just taking her Bible from the table beside her, when the door opened and Miss Gertrude entered.
“I only heard this minute from Mattie that you did not go to church, after all,” she said. “No wonder! What a rain! Papa thought it was too bad to take out the horses. He is tired, too, after his journey. Is it half-past eleven? Everybody is lazy on Sunday morning. But there will be an hour or two before lunch yet. I have brought our friend ‘Jeanie.’ There will be time for a chapter or two.”
Christie looked up with an expression of surprise and doubt on her face.
“Jeanie Deans, is it? But it is the Sabbath-day!”
Miss Gertrude laughed.
“Well, what if it is? I’m sure there is no harm in the book. You looked exactly like Aunt Barbara when you said that; I mean, all but her cap and spectacles. ‘The moral expression’ of your face, as she would say, was exactly the same.”
Christie laughed, but said nothing.
“You don’t mean to tell me that there is any harm in the book?” continued Miss Gertrude.
“It is not a right book for the Sabbath, though,” said Christie, gravely.
“Well, for my part, I don’t see that a book that it is right to read every other day of the week can be so very bad a book for Sunday,” said Miss Gertrude; sharply.
Christie made no reply.
“I declare, I like Aunt Barbara’s way best; to call all tales wicked at once, and have nothing to do with them—these vile novels, as she calls them. Come, now, you are not in earnest?”
“I am quite in earnest,” said Christie, gently, but firmly.
“And you have been reading or listening to this, or something like it, all the week! Well, that is what I should call straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel.”
“Well, perhaps it is. I never thought about it in that way before. But I am sure it is not right to read such books on the Sabbath-day. And perhaps it is wrong to read them at all—at least, so many of them as we have been reading. I almost think it is.”
She spoke sorrowfully, but not in any degree offensively. Indeed, she seemed to be speaking rather to herself than to Miss Gertrude. Yet the young lady was offended. Assuming the tone and manner with which she sometimes made herself disagreeable, she said:
“I should regret exceedingly to be the means of leading you to do anything that you think wrong. I must try and enjoy my book by myself.” And without looking towards her, she walked out of the room.
For a little while Christie sat motionless, gazing at the door through which she had disappeared, and thinking sorrowfully that this was a very sad ending to a very pleasant time. But there was a sharper pain at her heart than any that this thought awakened. All those days that had been so bright in passing had a shadow over them as she looked back upon them. To what end and purpose had all their intercourse tended? What was the cause of the feeling of uneasiness, almost of guilt, that had come on her now and then at quiet moments? It had clung to her all the morning. She was not very wise or far-sighted. She could not reason from cause to effect, or analyse her own feelings very closely. But even when she was congratulating herself on the prospect of a quiet time she was half conscious that she was not very glad to find herself alone. When she sat down with the Bible in her hand, there fell on her spirit no such blessed sense of rest and peace as used to transform the dim attic into something pleasanter than this pretty green room, and fairer than the summer garden.
“There is something wrong,” she said to herself, as she listened to Miss Gertrude’s footsteps on the stair. “I am afraid I am one of the folk that Mrs Grey used to tell about, that an easy life is not good for. Better the weary days and nights than to fall back into my old ways again, just content with the pleasure the day brings, without looking beyond. Who would have thought that I could have forgotten so soon? It is just this foolish novel reading, I think. Aunt Elsie said it was a snare to me; and Effie said something like it once.”
“Well, I’m not likely to have more of it,” she continued, with a sigh. “I suppose I ought to be glad that Miss Gertrude went away vexed; for I dare say I should not have had courage to-morrow to tell her that so much of that kind of reading is not good for me, Sabbath or week-day. It couldn’t have lasted long, at any rate. Of course, when Mrs Seaton comes home it will be quite different. Well, it will be better for me—a great deal better. I must be watchful and humble. To think that I should grow careless and forget, just when I ought to be so mindful and thankful!”
A few tears fell on the leaves of her little Bible; but by and by the former peace came back again, as she felt herself half resting indeed on the only sure foundation. The foolish fancies that had haunted her imagination all the week vanished before the influence of the blessed words on those familiar pages. They were precious still, though the strange charm of her new companionship had turned her thoughts from them for a time. She forgot her idle dreams, the foolish fancies she had indulged, the vain longing for this or that earthly good for herself and for all at home that had at times for the last few days taken possession of her. The peace which flows from a sense of pardon and acceptance and a firm trust was for the time enjoyed. To be and to do just what God willed seemed infinitely desirable to her.
“‘Great peace have they that love Thy law,’” she murmured. “I do love it; and I have the peace.”
Very humble and earnest were the prayers that rose beside the bed of little Claude that day, and very grave, yet happy, was the face that greeted his waking. Christie needed all her patience, for this was one of Claude’s fretful days. He grew weary of being confined to one room; he longed for the company of his sister and Clement. His brother came in for a little while after he had had his dinner; but he was in one of his troublesome moods, and vexed and fretted Claude so much that Christie was fain to give him over to Martha’s charge, bidding him not come into the green room till he was ready to be good and kind.
In the meantime, Miss Gertrude was enjoying her book in her own room; or, rather, she was not enjoying it. It had lost much of its interest to her. She was not in a humour to enjoy anything just then. She wandered into the parlour at last, thinking a chat with her father, or even with Mr Sherwood, would be better than her book. But her father was in the library, with the door shut, and Mr Sherwood had gone out, notwithstanding the rain. The deserted room looked dreary, and she went to her own again.
At six she went down to dinner. They were not a very lively party. Mr Seaton looked sleepy, and yawned several times before they went to the dining-room. Mr Sherwood was very grave, and, indeed, “stupid,” as Gertrude thought.
“What a misfortune a rainy Sunday is!” she said at last. “One scarcely knows what to do with one’s self. This has seemed twice as long as other days.”
“Pray don’t let any one hear you say that, my dear,” said her father, laughing. “If one rainy Sunday exhausts the resources of a well-educated young lady, I am afraid her prospects are not the brightest.”
Miss Gertrude laughed.
“Oh, father, I haven’t quite got to that state of exhaustion! But I have been dull and stupid—not able to settle myself to the enjoyment of anything—all day.”
“Where are the boys?” asked her father.
“Claude is in the green room, with his nurse. Indeed, I suppose both boys are there just now. After dinner I shall send for them. Claude really seems better; he runs about again.”
“Stay,” said Mr Sherwood. “This reminds me that I brought a letter last night for the new nursemaid; at least, I suppose so;” and he took a letter from his pocket, and laid it on the table.
“You don’t mean that you brought that home last night, and have kept it till this time?” said Miss Gertrude, with much surprise.
“Tut, tut, my child!” said her father, touching the hand outstretched to take the letter. She withdrew her hand without a word.
“You could not have been more indignant had the letter been for yourself. It is not such a terrible oversight,” said Mrs Lane, or Aunt Barbara, as she was commonly called, who had looked in on her way from church. “If it is like most of the letters of that sort of people, it would be little loss though she never got it. Such extraordinary epistles as I sometimes read for my servants!”
“This seems quite a respectable affair, however,” said Mr Seaton, reading the direction in Effie’s fair, clear handwriting:
Christina Redfern,
Care of J.R. Seaton, Esquire.
“That is a very pretty direction—very.”
“I am very sorry, and very much ashamed of my carelessness,” said Mr Sherwood. “I hope, Miss Gertrude, you will forgive me, and I will never do so again, as little boys say.”
But he did not look either very sorry or very much ashamed, Miss Gertrude thought, and she made no reply. The rather uncomfortable silence that followed was broken by a low voice at the door:
“Am I to take the children, Miss Gertrude?”
Master Clement answered:
“No, I shan’t go to bed yet. It’s only seven o’clock.”
“Come in,” said Mr Seaton, kindly. “I want to know how these little fellows have behaved since their mother went away.”
Christie came forward shyly, curtseying, in some confusion, to Mrs Lane, whom her short-sighted eyes did not discern till she was close upon her.
“I hope they have been good and obedient, and have not given you much trouble?” said Mr Seaton again.
A little smile passed over Christie’s mouth. “Master Clement is Miss Gertrude’s boy, sir,” she said, as she stooped to buckle the belt of that active young gentleman.
“And I’m very good. She punishes me when I ain’t good.”
“I’m afraid she has enough to do, then. And the doctor thinks Claude is better, does he?” he asked, caressing the pale little face that lay on his shoulder.
“Yes,” said Christie, doubtfully. “He says he is better.”
There was no mistaking the look of wistful interest that overspread her face as she looked at the child.
“He is very good and patient, almost always,” she added, as she met the little boy’s smile.
“I’m a great deal better,” said Claude. “The doctor says I may ride on the pony some day.”
“Have you had much to do with children?” asked Aunt Barbara.
“I lived with Mrs Lee eight months.”
“And she parted with you because she needed a person of more experience?”
“Yes, I suppose so. I wasn’t strong enough Mr Lee thought. I was very sorry.”
It was a sore subject with Christie yet, and the colour went and came as she spoke.
“And where were you before?” asked Mr Seaton, wishing to relieve her embarrassment.
“I was with our own children, at home. I was one of the children then myself. I never was away from home before my father died.”
“Look, here is something for you. Cousin Charles says it is for you. It is a letter,” said Clement, holding it up.
If there had been ten Aunt Barbaras in the room, Christie could not have restrained the expression of surprise and pleasure that rose to her lips at the sight of Effie’s familiar handwriting, and her hands quite trembled as she took it from the little boy.
“Now, Claudie,” said the young lady, coming forward, “it is time for you to go with Christie. Say ‘good-night’ to father and Aunt Barbara.”
For a single moment the look of peevish resistance that used to come so often to the child’s face passed over it, but it changed as Christie stooped down, saying softly:
“Will you walk? or shall I carry you, as they carried the little boy home from the field?”
“And will you tell me more?” he asked, holding out his hand.
“Oh, yes; and how glad his mother was when he grew better again. Now walk a little bit, and I will carry you up-stairs. The doctor says he ought to be encouraged to walk,” she said to his father, as she set him down.
The child bade them “good-night” quite willingly, and went.
“Clement, stay with me,” said his sister. “Christie will not get much good of her letter for the next two hours, if you are with her.”
Clement was very willing to stay. But for all that Christie did not get much good of her letter for an hour and more, except the good it did her to hold it in her hand, and feeling the delight that was in store for her. Miss Gertrude came to the green room some time after, to find her still rocking and singing to the wakeful Claude.
“You don’t mean you haven’t read your letter yet?” she said, in astonishment.
“I have opened it. They are all well. I like to be sure of a quiet time to read a letter.”
“Well, take the lamp and go over there. I will take care of him for the present.”
“He is just asleep now,” said Christie, hesitating. She was thinking that she would like to have the room to herself before she read her letter, but as Miss Gertrude seated herself in the low rocking-chair, she had only to take the lamp and go to the other side.
She soon forgot Miss Gertrude, Claude, and all besides, except Effie and the bairns at home. Effie had the faculty, which many people of greater pretensions do not possess, of putting a great deal into a letter. They were always written journal-wise—a little now, and a little then; and her small, clear handwriting had come to be like print to Christie’s accustomed eyes. So she read on, with a smile on her lip, quite unconscious that the eyes that seemed to be seeing nothing but the bright embers were all the time furtively watching her. Miss Gertrude longed for a peep into the unseen world in which her humble friend was at that moment revelling. She felt positively envious of the supreme content that was expressed on Christie’s plain, pale face.
She would not have understood it had the peep been granted. She never could have understood the interest which in Christie’s mind was connected with the various little items of news with which Effie’s letter was nearly filled. There was the coming and going of the neighbours, a visit from blind Alice, and her delight in her canary. There was an account of Jennie’s unprecedented success in chicken-raising, and of little Will’s triumphant conquest of compound division; and many more items of the same kind. There were a few words—a very few—about the day Christie had spent in the cemetery with John Nesbitt, which brought the happy tears into her eyes; and that was all.
No, the best came last. The letter had been opened again, and a slip of paper had been added, to tell how Effie had got a letter from Mrs Lee. It was a very short letter, scarcely more than a line or two; but Effie was to keep it safe to show to Christie when she came home. In the meantime she must tell her that she had never in all her life been so proud and happy as she had been when she read to Aunt Elsie what a help and comfort her dear little sister had been to the writer in the midst of sickness and sorrow; and more than that, how, by means of her little Bible and her earnest, humble words, she had opened to her a way to a higher hope and a better consolation than earth could give, and how the lady could not go away without doing what she knew would give her friend more pleasure than anything else she could do. She must tell Christie’s sister how good and patient and useful she had been.
“And so, Christie, when you are weary or desponding, as I am afraid you sometimes are, I think you may take a little rest and pleasure from the thought that you have been favoured to be made the giver of a ‘cup of cold water to one of His little ones.’”
Oh, it was too much! Such words from her dearest sister Effie! And to think that Mrs Lee should have written them that last night, when she must have been so weary! And had she really done her good? Oh, it was too much happiness! The letter fell from her hands, and her face, as she burst into happy tears, was hidden by them. It was only for a moment, however. She fancied herself quite unobserved as she took up her precious letter.
“Are they all well at home?” asked Miss Gertrude, as Christie, having stealthily wiped away all traces of her tears, came and sat down on the other side of the cot, where Claude was now sleeping soundly.
“They are all quite well. My aunt is better. Everything is just as usual.”
“Your sister is a very pretty writer, is she not?” she asked.
“Yes, she writes very plain and even. Her writing is easily read.” But Christie did not offer to show her the letter, as Miss Gertrude half hoped she would. It was not altogether for the gratification of her curiosity, nor chiefly for that, she wanted to see it. Though her companion was sitting there, with her cheek leaning on her hand, so gravely and so quietly, she knew that her heart was by no means so quiet as her outward appearance seemed to indicate. She saw that it was ready to overflow with emotion of some kind—happiness, Miss Gertrude thought, but was not sure.
But it could not be all happiness. Christie must be longing for the sight of the sister whose written words could call forth such tears as she had seen falling even now. And she wished to be able to sympathise with her, to say some word that would establish confidence between them. Besides, she had a feeling that she ought to atone for her petulance in the morning. At any rate, she wanted to be sure that Christie did not resent it.
But Christie said nothing. She sat quite still, and her thoughts were far-away. When she roused herself, it was not to speak, but to take up her little Bible, that lay within reach of her hand.
“How fond you seem to be of that book!” said Miss Gertrude, as she watched her turning over the leaves.
“Yes,” said Christie, quietly. “Effie gave it to me.”
“Are you going to read now?”
“I was looking for something that Effie wrote about. I can’t mind the exact words, and I am not sure where to find them.” And she still turned over the leaves.
“Have you found it?” said Miss Gertrude, when she paused.
“Yes; I have found it. Here it is. ‘And whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water only, in the name of a disciple, shall in no wise lose his reward.’”
She read it slowly and gravely, but Miss Gertrude could by no means understand the look of mingled doubt and pleasure that she saw on her face when she had done.
“Well?” she said, inquiringly.
But Christie had nothing to say. Her face was bowed down on her hands, and she did not raise it till she heard the door open and shut; and when she looked up, Miss Gertrude was gone.