Chapter Five.
Clouds and sunshine.
When a great sorrow has just fallen upon us, we find it impossible to feel that all things about us are not changed. We cannot imagine ourselves falling into the old daily routine again. The death of one dear to us gives us a shock which seems to unsettle the very foundation of things. A sense of insecurity and unreality pervades all that concerns us. We shrink from the thought that the old pleasures will charm us again, that daily cares will occupy our minds to the exclusion of to-day’s sadness, that time will heal the wounds that smart so bitterly now.
But it does; and as it passes, we find ourselves going the old rounds, enjoying the old pleasures, doing the duties which the day brings; and the great healer does his kindly office, to the soothing of our pain. It is not that our bereavement is no longer felt, or that we have forgotten the friend we loved. But the human heart is a harp with many strings. Though one be broken, there are others which answer to the touch of the wandering breezes; and though the music may be marred in some of its measures, it is still sweet.
The young cannot long sit under the shadow of a great sorrow, if there be any chance rays of sunshine gleaming. Besides, the poor have no time to sit down and nurse their grief. When little more than a week had passed after Mr Redfern’s death, Effie was obliged to return to the ruling and guiding of her noisy little kingdom. She went sadly enough; and many an anxious thought went back to the household at home. But she could not choose but go. They had agreed among themselves that there should be no change till after the harvest should be gathered in, and in the meantime, all the help that she could give was needed. Her monthly wages were growing doubly precious in her estimation. They were the chief dependence at home.
The sowing and planting had been on a limited scale this spring, and all outdoor matters, except what pertained to the dairy, could very well be attended to by James Cairns, their hired man, who was strong and willing. So Annie and Sarah were in the house, and the little ones went to school as soon as the summer weather came.
As for Christie, little was expected from her besides attending to Aunt Elsie, and reading to her now and then. These were easy enough duties, one would think, considering how little attention Aunt Elsie was willing to accept from any one. But light as they were, Christie could not hide, and did not always try to hide, the truth that they were irksome to her.
Poor little Christie! How miserable she was, often! How mortified and ashamed of herself! This was all so different from what she had meant to be when Effie went away—a help and a comfort to all. There were times when she strove bravely with herself: she strove to be less peevish, and to join the rest in their efforts to be useful and cheerful; but she almost always failed, and every new failure left her less able and less willing to try again.
But Christie was not so much to blame for these shortcomings as she had sometimes been. The great reaction from the efforts and anxieties before her father’s death, as well as the shock of that event, left her neither strength nor power to exert herself or to interest herself in what was passing. Her sisters meant kindly in claiming no help about the household work from her, but they made a mistake in so doing. Active work, that would have really tired her, and left her no time for melancholy musings, would have been far better for her. As it was, she could apply herself to no employment, not even her favourite reading. Her time, when not immediately under her aunt’s eye, was passed in listless wanderings to and fro, or in sitting with folded hands, thinking thoughts that were unprofitable always, and sometimes wrong. Fits of silence alternated with sudden and violent bursts of weeping, which her sisters could neither soothe nor understand. Indeed, she did not understand them herself. She struggled with them, ashamed of her folly and weakness; but she grew no better, but rather worse.
She might well rejoice when, at the end of a fortnight, Effie came home. The wise and loving elder sister was not long in discovering that the peevishness and listlessness of her young sister sprang from a cause beyond her control. She was ill from over-exertion, and nervous from over-excitement and grief. Nothing could be worse for her than this confinement to Aunt Elsie’s sick-room, added to the querulousness of Aunt Elsie herself.
“You should let Christie help with the milking, as she used to do,” she said to Sarah. “It would be far better for her than sitting so much in Aunt Elsie’s room. She seems ill and out of sorts.”
“Yes, she’s out of sorts,” said Sarah, with less of sympathy in her tone than Effie had shown. “There’s no telling what to do with her sometimes. She can scarcely bear a word, but bursts out crying if the least thing is said to her. I dare say she is not very well, poor child!”
“She seems far from well, indeed,” said Effie, gravely. “And I’m sure you, or I either, would find our spirits sink if we were to spend day after day in Aunt Elsie’s room. You don’t know what it is till you try it.”
Sarah shrugged her shoulders.
“I dare say we should. But Christie doesna seem to mind much what Aunt Elsie says. I’m sure I thought she liked better to be there than to be working hard in the kitchen or dairy.”
“She may like it better, but it’s no’ so good for her, for all that. You should send her out, and try and cheer her up, poor lassie! She’s no’ so strong as the rest of us; and she suffers much from the shock.”
That night, when the time for bringing home the cows came, Effie took her sun-bonnet from the nail, saying carelessly:
“I’m going to the pasture. Are you coming, Christie?”
“For the cows?” said Christie, tartly. “The bairns go for them.”
“Oh, but I’m going for the pleasure of the walk. We’ll go through the wheat, and down by the brook. Come.”
Christie would far rather have stayed quietly at home, but she did not like to refuse Effie; and so she went, and was better for it. At first Effie spoke of various things which interested them as a family; and Christie found herself listening with pleasure to all her plans. At the side of the brook, where they sat down for a while, as they usually did, they spoke of their father and mother; and though Christie wept, it was not that nervous weeping which sometimes so exhausted her. She wept gently; and when Effie spoke of the love that should bind them all closely together, now that they were orphans, she prayed inwardly that God would make her more patient and loving than she had lately been. Her heart was lighter than it had been for days, when they rose to go.
They went to the kirk together the next day too. They did not walk; so there was no lingering in the kirk-yard or at the half-mile corner. But the day was fine and the air pleasant; and the motion of the great wagon in which they drove, though not very easy, was agreeable for a change, and Christie enjoyed it all. I am afraid she did not enjoy the sermon better than usual. She had a great many wandering thoughts, and she had to struggle against overpowering drowsiness, which she did not quite succeed in casting off. But she enjoyed the kind greetings and looks of sympathy that awaited them in the kirk-yard, though they brought many tears to Effie’s eyes, and sent them gushing over her own pale cheeks. She was glad of old Mrs Grey’s sweet, cheerful words, and of the light pressure of blind Allie’s little hand. She was glad when she heard Mrs Nesbitt ask Effie to bring her sister over to pass a week with her, and more glad still when Effie made the promise, saying the change would do her good. Altogether, the day was a pleasant one, and Christie went home better and more cheerful than she had been since her father’s death.
But before the week was over she had fallen back into the old way again; and when Effie came home on Saturday, she found her as wan and listless and peevish as ever. Something must be done without delay, thought the elder sister. So, that night, as she sat with Annie and Sarah in her aunt’s room, when all the little ones had gone to bed, she said:
“Aunt Elsie, I am going to take Christie back with me, to stay a week with Mrs Nesbitt.”
Aunt Elsie looked astonished and somewhat displeased.
“Why should you do the like of that?” she asked.
“Oh, just for a change. She’s not very well, I think, and a little change will do her good.”
“Folk canna ay get changes when they would like them,” said Aunt Elsie, coldly. “I see nothing more than usual the matter with her. If she’s no’ well, home’s the best place for her. I see no cause why Mrs Nesbitt should be troubled with the likes of her.”
“Oh, Mrs Nesbitt winna think it a trouble. Christie will be no trouble to her. I know she canna well be spared. You’ll miss her; but she’ll be all the better a nurse when she comes home strong and cheerful.”
“I beg you winna think about me in making your plans for pleasuring,” said her aunt, in a tone which always made those who heard it uncomfortable. “I’ll try and do without her services for a while. She thinks much of herself; and so do you, it seems.”
There was an unpleasant pause, during which Effie congratulated herself on the forethought that had sent Christie safely to bed before the matter was discussed. Annie, as she generally did in similar circumstances, started another subject, hoping to avert anything more unpleasant. But Effie wanted the matter decided, and Aunt Elsie had something more to say.
“It’s my belief you mean to spoil the lassie, if she’s no spoiled already, petting and making a work with her as though she were really ill. Ill! It’s little any of you ken what it is to be ill.”
“I don’t think she’s very ill,” said Effie, gently; “but she’s nervous and weary and out of sorts, and I think maybe a change—”
“Nervous!” repeated Aunt Elsie, contemptuously. “It was better days when there was less said about nerves than I am in the way of hearing now. Let a bairn be cross, or sulky, and, oh! it’s nervous she is, poor thing! Let her have a change. I know not, for my part, what the world is coming to. Nervous, indeed!”
“I didna mean to excuse Christie’s peevishness—far from it,” said Effie. “I know you have not a cheerful companion in her. But I do think she is not well; and as Mrs Nesbitt asked her, I thought perhaps you wouldna mind letting her go for a while.”
“It matters little what I may think on that or any other subject,” said Aunt Elsie, in a tone which betrayed that anger was giving place to sadness. “Helpless as I am, and burdensome, I should take what consideration I can get, and be thankful. I needna expect that my wishes will govern any of you.”
This was very unjust, and the best way to make her feel that it was so was to keep silence; and not a word was said in reply. In a little time she said, again—
“I dinna see how you can think of taking the child away anywhere, and a printed calico all that she has in the way of mourning, and her father not buried a month yet.”
“It would matter very little at Mrs Nesbitt’s,” said Effie, congratulating herself on her aunt’s softening tone, but not seeming to notice it.
“Times are sorely changed with us, when the price of a gown more or less is felt as it is,” said Aunt Elsie, with a sigh. “I have seen the day—” And she wandered off to other matters. Effie chose to consider the affair of Christie’s going settled. And so it was. No further objection was made; and they went together the next afternoon.
If Effie could have chosen among all the pleasant homes of Glengarry, she could have found no better place for her young sister than Mrs Nesbitt’s. It was quiet and cheerful at the same time. Christie could pursue her own occupations, and go her own way, no one interfering with her, so long as her way was the right way and her occupation such as would do her no injury. But there were no listless wanderings to and fro, no idle musings, permitted here. No foolish reading was possible. If a shadow began to gather on the child’s brow, her attention was claimed immediately, either by Jean, the merry maid-of-all-work, or by Mrs Nesbitt herself. There were chickens to feed, or vegetables to be gathered, or the lambs were to be counted, or some other good reason was found why she should betake herself to the fresh air and the pleasant fields or the garden.
The evenings were always bright. There was no danger of being dull where Mrs Nesbitt’s merry boys were. Her family consisted of four sons. John, the eldest, was just twenty-three—though, for some reason or other, the young Redferns were in the habit of thinking him quite a middle-aged man. Perhaps it was because he was usually so grave and quiet; perhaps because of a rumour they had heard that John meant, some day, to be a minister. He taught a Sabbath-class too, and took part in meetings, like a much older man than he was.
The other lads were considerably younger. Lewis, the second son, was not yet eighteen; Charles was twelve, and little Dan not more than nine. They were neither grave nor quiet. The house was transformed into a very different place when they crossed the threshold from the field or the school. In a fashion of her own, Christie enjoyed their fun and frolic very much. She told Effie, when she came to see her, that she had heard more laughter that week than she had heard in Canada in all her life before. As for them, they wondered a little at her shyness and her quiet ways; but they were tolerant, for boys, of her fancies and failings, and beguiled her into sharing many a ramble and frolic with them.
Once she went to her sister’s school, which was three miles from the Nesbitt farm, and once she spent a day with Mrs Nesbitt at old Mrs Grey’s, and they brought little Allie home with them. The little blind girl was a constant wonder and delight. She was as cheerful and happy as were any of the merry Nesbitt boys; and if there was less noise among them when she was one of the circle, there was no less mirth. To say that she was patient under her affliction would not be saying enough; she did not seem to feel her blindness as an affliction, so readily and sweetly did she accept the means of happiness yet within her reach. To Christie, the gentle, merry little creature was a constant rebuke, and all the more that she knew the little one was unconscious of the lesson she was teaching.
There was no service in the kirk the next Sabbath, so, instead of going home as usual, Effie, for Christie’s sake, accepted Mrs Nesbitt’s invitation to spend it at her house. She saw with delight the returning colour on her little sister’s cheek, and noticed the change for the better that had taken place in her health and spirits, and inwardly she rejoiced over the success of her plan. “She shall have another week at this pleasant place, if possible—and more than that.” And she sighed to think how much the poor girl might have to try both health and spirits when these pleasant weeks should be passed. But she did not let Christie hear her sigh. She had only smiles and happy words for her.
It was a very pleasant Sabbath for Christie—the very pleasantest she could remember to have passed. She could not agree with Charlie Nesbitt that it was “a little too long.” She enjoyed every moment of it. She enjoyed the early walk, the reading, the singing, and the walk to John Nesbitt’s Sabbath-class in the afternoon. It was rather far—three miles, nearly—and the walk tired her a little. But all the more for that did she enjoy her rest on the low sofa after tea.
It was a very pleasant place, that parlour of Mrs Nesbitt’s—so neat, so cool, so quiet. There was not much to distinguish it from other parlours in Laidlaw; and, in general, they were prim and plain enough. There was a small figured carpet, crimson and black, upon the floor. It did not quite reach the wall on one side, for Mrs Nesbitt’s Scottish parlour had been smaller than this one; and the deficiency was supplied by a breadth of drugget, of a different shade of colour, which might have marred the effect somewhat to one more fastidious than Christie. For the rest, the chairs were of some common wood and painted brown, the sofa was covered with chintz to match the window-curtains, and there was a pale blue paper on the walls. For ornaments, there were two or three pictures on the walls, and on the mantel-piece a great many curious shells and a quaint old vase or two. There was a bookcase of some dark wood in the corner, which was well filled with books, whose bindings were plain and dark, not to say dingy. There were few of Christie’s favourites among them; so that the charm of the room did not lie there. There was another small cabinet, with a glass door—a perfect treasury of beautiful things, in Christie’s estimation, old china and glass, and an old-fashioned piece or two of plate; but the key was safely kept in Mrs Nesbitt’s pocket.
Perhaps it was the charm of association that made the place so pleasant to Christie. Here, every day, she had been made to rest on the chintz sofa, and every day she had wakened to find a kind face beaming upon her and to hear a kind voice calling her by name. I think almost any place would have been pleasant with Mrs Nesbitt going about so gently and lovingly in it. Some thought of this came into Christie’s mind, as she lay musing there that Sabbath afternoon. The fading light fell on the soft grey hair that showed beneath the widow’s snowy cap, and on the placid face beneath, with a strangely beautifying power. The sweet gravity that was on her silent lips was better worth seeing, Christie thought, than other people’s smiles. Her eyes had no beauty, in the common acceptation of the term. They seemed like eyes that had been washed with many tears. But the sadness which must have looked from them once had given place to patience and gentle kindness now.
“How nice and quiet it is here!” whispered Christie to her sister, who sat beside her, leaning her head upon her hand.
Effie quite started, as she spoke.
“Yes; it is a very peaceful place. I get rid of all vexing thoughts when I come in here.” And she turned her eyes to Mrs Nesbitt’s placid face.
“Vexing thoughts!” repeated Christie. “I dare say Effie has many a one.” And she sighed too; but almost before she had time to ask herself what Effie’s vexing thoughts might be, she was asleep. A voice, not Effie’s nor Mrs Nesbitt’s, soon awoke her. The twilight had deepened, and up and down the darkening room John Nesbitt was walking, with a step quicker than was usual. Christie fancied there was something like impatience in his step. He soon came and leaned on the window, close to the place where Effie sat, and Christie heard him say, in a voice which was not quite steady:
“Is it all over, then, Effie?”
Effie made a sudden movement of some kind, Christie could not tell what, and after a moment she said:
“It would be better for you, John.”
He did not wait to hear more. Soon, however, he came back again.
“And will it be better for you, Effie?” he asked, gravely and gently, yet with strong feeling.
“I must think of many a one before myself in this matter,” she said; and soon after added, “Don’t make this trouble harder to bear, John.”
There was a long silence; but John did not resume his walk, and by and by Effie spoke again.
“Do you never think of your old wish to finish your studies?”
“My father’s death put an end to that,” he answered, sadly.
“I don’t know why,” said Effie. “Of course at the time it must have done so; but you are young, and your brothers are growing up to take your place with your mother and on the farm, and I think it would be like putting your hand to the plough and looking back, to give up all thought of entering the ministry. You have your life before you, John.”
He did not answer.
“If it were for no other reason than that,” continued Effie, “I could not consent to burden you in the way you propose; and besides—your mother—”
She turned, and caught the astonished eyes of Christie peering out of the darkness, and paused.
“Effie,” said Christie, when they were in their own room, and the candle was out, “what were you saying to John Nesbitt to-night?”
“Saying?” repeated Effie.
“Yes—in the parlour. Does he want us to come and live here? I thought he did by what he said.”
“Some of us,” said Effie, after a pause. “John is very kind, and so is his mother. But of course it is not to be thought of.”
“Must we leave the farm, Effie?” asked Christie, anxiously.
“I hardly know; I cannot tell. Aunt Elsie must decide.”
“Is it not ours, Effie? Was my father in debt?”
“Not for the farm; but it was paid for, or partly paid for, with money that belonged to Aunt Elsie. I canna explain it. She sold her annuity, or gave up her income, in some way, when we came here. And in the letter that father wrote, he said that he wished that in some way, as soon as possible, she should get it back.”
“But how?” asked Christie, wondering.
“I hardly know. But you know, Christie, Aunt Elsie is not like other people—mean; it would make her more unhappy to feel that she was dependent than it would make most people. And we must, in some way, manage to do as father wished. If he had lived, it would have been different. She doesna think that I know about it. She didna see father’s letter.”
“Then the farm will be Aunt Elsie’s?” said Christie.
“Yes; and if we could manage it well, we might live on as we have been living; but I am afraid we canna.”
Christie had her own thoughts about all living on Aunt Elsie’s farm; but she said nothing.
“I suppose we shall have to let the farm, or sell it, and get the money invested, in some way, for Aunt Elsie.”
“And what then?” asked Christie, in a suppressed tone.
“I am sure I canna tell,” said Effie; and the tone of her voice betrayed more anxiety than her words did. “Not that there is any great cause for anxiety,” she added. “There is always work to do for those who are willing; and we’ll try and keep together till the bairns are grown up.”
“Will Aunt Elsie go home to Scotland, do you think, Effie?” asked Christie.
“Oh, no! I don’t think she will. She doesna like this country altogether, I know; but now that she has grown so helpless, she will not care to go back. She has no very near friends there now.”
“Do you think Aunt Elsie would take the money if the farm was sold?” asked Christie, again.
“As to that, it has been partly hers all along. When the farm was bought, my father gave Aunt Elsie a mortgage, or something—I don’t understand exactly what—but it was as a security that her money was to be safe to her. If we had been able to carry on the farm, there would have been little difference; though there are some other debts too.”
“And if we leave the farm, where can we go?” asked Christie.
“I don’t know; I lose myself thinking about it. But God will provide. I am not really afraid, when I have time to consider. The bairns must be kept together in some way. We must trust till the way is opened before us.”
But there was something very unlike Effie’s usual cheerfulness in her way of speaking. Christie could plainly see that. But she mistook the cause.
“Effie,” she said, after a little pause, “it winna be very pleasant to think that we are depending on Aunt Elsie. I dinna wonder that you sigh.”
“Whisht, Christie! It’s not that, child. I don’t think you are quite just to Aunt Elsie. She has done much, and given up much, for us since mother died. Her way is not ay pleasant; but I think she would be easier to deal with as the giver than as the receiver. I mean, I shall be very glad if it can be arranged that she shall have her income again. But we won’t speak more of these things to-night, dear. We only vex ourselves; and that can do no good.”
But Effie did not cease to vex herself when she ceased to speak, if Christie might judge from the sighs that frequently escaped her. Just as she was dropping to sleep, her sister’s voice aroused her.
“Christie,” she said, “you are not to say anything to any one about—about John Nesbitt’s wanting me to come here. Of course it’s impossible; and it mustna be spoken about.”
“I couldna help hearing, Effie.”
“No; I know, dear. But it’s not to be spoken about. You must forget it.”
“Did Mrs Nesbitt want it too?” asked Christie.
“I don’t know. Mrs Nesbitt is very kind; but you mustna say anything to her about this matter—or to any one. Promise me, Christie.”
Christie promised, wondering very much at her sister’s eagerness, and thinking all the time that it would be very nice to live with Mrs Nesbitt and her sons, far pleasanter than to live on the farm, if it was to be Aunt Elsie’s. Christie felt very unsubmissive to this part of their trouble. She thought it would be far easier to depend for a home and food and clothes on their kind neighbours, who were friends indeed, than on the unwilling bounty of her aunt. But, as Effie said, Christie by no means did justice to the many good qualities of her aunt, and was far from properly appreciating her self-denying efforts in behalf of them all.
After that night, Effie did not often allude to their future plans when with Christie. It was best not to vex themselves with troubles that might never come, she said. They must wait patiently till the harvest was over, and then all would be settled.
The summer passed on, with little to mark its course. Christie had more to do about the house and in the garden than in the spring, and was better and more contented for it. But she and her sisters sent many an anxious glance forward to the harvest-time.
They did not have to wait so long, however. Before the harvest-time their affairs were settled. An opportunity, which those capable of judging thought very favourable, occurred for selling it; and it was sold. They might have occupied the house for the winter; but this would only have been to delay that which delay would make no easier. It was wiser and better in every way to look out for a home at once.
About six miles from the farm, in the neighbourhood where Effie’s school was, there stood on the edge of a partially-cleared field a small log-house, which had been for several months uninhabited. Towards this the eyes of the elder sister had often turned during the last few weeks. Once, on her way home from school, she went into it. She was alone; and though she would have been very unwilling to confess it, the half-hour she passed there was as sorrowful a half-hour as she had ever passed in her life. For Effie was by no means so wise and courageous as Christie, in her sisterly admiration, was inclined to consider her. Looking on the bare walls and defective floors and broken windows, her heart failed her at the thought of ever making that a home for her brother and sisters.
Behind the house lay a low, rocky field, encumbered with logs and charred stumps, between which bushes and a second growth of young trees were springing. A low, irregular fence of logs and branches, with a stone foundation, had once separated the field from the road; but it was mostly broken-down now, and only a few traces of what had been a garden remained. It was not the main road that passed the house, but a cross-road running between the main roads; and the place had a lonely and deserted look, which might well add to the depression which anxiety and uncertainty as to their future had brought on Effie. No wonder that very troubled and sad was the half-hour which she passed in the dreary place.
“I wish I hadna spoken to Aunt Elsie about this place,” she said to herself. “She seemed quite pleased with the thought of coming here; but we could never live in this miserable hovel. What could I be thinking about? How dreary and broken-down it is!”
There were but two rooms and a closet or two on the ground-floor. Above, there might be another made—perhaps two; but that part of the house was quite unfinished, showing the daylight through the chinks between the logs. Floor there was none.
“It could never be made comfortable, I am afraid,” she said, as she made her way down the creaking ladder. “I could never think of bringing the bairns here.” And it was with a heavy heart that she took her way home.
But her courage rose again. Before many days had passed she had decided to try what could be done with the place. The house, such as it was, with a little square of garden-ground, could be got for a rent merely nominal. It was near her school. She could live at home, and the little ones could go to school with her. Thus they could be kept together, and their education not be neglected. With what she and her sisters could earn they could live comfortably for some years in this quiet place. She could not fulfil her promise to her father to keep the little ones together, elsewhere; for she must not give up her school. Her salary was not large, but it was sure; and here they would be under her own eye. The price of the farm had been well invested in her aunt’s name, though Aunt Elsie herself was not yet aware of the fact. Effie was not sure whether she would remain with them or return home. But whatever she did, her income must be quite at her own disposal. The sisters must work for themselves and the little ones. If their aunt stayed with them, well; but they must henceforth depend on their own exertions.
When Effie had once decided that the little log-house on the cross-road was thenceforward to be their home, her naturally happy temper, and her earnest desire to make the best of all things for the sake of the others, made it easy for her to look for hopeful signs for the future, and to make light of difficulties which she could not fail to see. Under her direction, and by her assistance, the little log-house underwent an entire transformation before six weeks were over. Nothing was done by other hands which her own or Sarah’s and Annie’s could do. The carpenters laid new floors and mended broken windows; the plasterers filled the chinks and covered the walls of what was to be their chamber; but the girls themselves scrubbed and whitewashed, papered and painted, cleaned away rubbish from without and from within, and settled their various affairs with an energy and good-will which left them neither time nor inclination for repining. In a little while it would have been impossible to recognise in the bright and cheerful little cottage the dismal place in which, at her first visit, Effie had shed some very bitter tears.
Aunt Elsie did not leave them. She quite resented the idea of such a thing being possible. She had little faith in the likelihood of the children being kept together and clothed and fed by the unassisted efforts of the sisters, and assumed the direction of affairs in the new home, as she had always done in the old. Effie’s words with regard to her proved true. She was far easier to do with when she found herself in a position to give rather than to receive assistance. Her income was not large. Indeed, it was so small that those who have never been driven to bitter straits might smile at her idea of a competence. It would have barely kept her from want, in any circumstances; but joined to Effie’s earnings it gave promise of many comforts in their humble home. So ample did their means seem to them at first, that they would fain have persuaded each other that there need be no separation—that all might linger under the shelter of the lowly roof. But it could not be. Annie and Sarah both refused to eat bread of their sister’s winning, when there was not work enough to occupy them at home; and before they had been settled many weeks, they began to think of looking for situations elsewhere.
At first they both proposed to leave; but this Effie could not be prevailed upon to consider right. Helpless as Aunt Elsie was and seemed likely to continue, there was far more to do in their little household, limited as their means were, than it was possible for Christie to do well. The winter was coming, already the mornings were growing short. She herself could do little at home without neglecting her school; and her school must not be neglected. And besides, though Effie did not say much about it, she felt that almost any other discipline would be better for her nervous, excitable sister, than that she would be likely to experience with none to stand between her and the peculiar rigour of Aunt Elsie’s system of training. So she would not hear of both Annie and Sarah leaving them. Indeed, she constantly entreated, whenever the matter was discussed, that neither of them should go till winter was over. There was no fear but that the way would be opened before them. In the meantime, they might wait patiently at home.
And the way was opened far sooner than they had hoped or than Effie desired. A lady who had been passing the summer in the neighbourhood had been requested by a friend in town to secure for her the services of a young woman as nurse. Good health and a cheerful temper, with respectability of character, were all that was required. Then Annie and Sarah began seriously to discuss which of them should go and which should stay at home. Strange to say, Aunt Elsie was the only one of them all who shrank from the idea of the girls “going to service” or “taking a place.” It was a very hard thing for her brother’s daughters, she said, who had been brought up with expectations and prospects so different. She would far rather that Sarah who was skilful with the needle, and had a decided taste for millinery and dressmaking, should have offered herself to the dressmaker of the neighbouring village, or even have gone to the city to look for such a situation there. But this plan was too indefinite to suit the girls. Besides, there was no prospect of present remuneration should it succeed. So the situation of nurse was applied for and obtained by Annie. Sarah’s needle could be kept busy at home, and perhaps she could earn a little besides by making caps and bonnets for their neighbours. While they awaited the lady’s final answer, the preparations for Annie’s departure went busily on.
The answer came, and with it a request that another nurse might be engaged. A smaller girl would do. She would be expected to amuse, and perhaps teach reading to two little girls. If such a one could be found, permission was given to Annie to delay her departure from home for a week, till they should come together.
There was a dead silence when the letter was read. Annie and Sarah looked at each other, and then at Effie. Christie, through all the reading, had never taken her eyes from her elder sister’s face. But Effie looked at no one. The same thought had come into the minds of all; and Effie feared to have the thought put into words. But Aunt Elsie had no such fear, it seemed; for after examining the letter, she said, in a voice that did not betray very much interest in the subject:
“How would you like to go, Christie?” Christie said nothing, but still looked at Effie.
“What do you think, Effie?” continued her aunt.
“Oh, it’s of no use to think about it at all! There’s no need of Christie’s going. She is not strong enough. She is but a child.”
Effie spoke hastily, as though she wished the subject dropped. But Aunt Elsie did not seem inclined to drop it.
“Well, it’s but a little girl that is wanted,” she said. “And as for her not being strong enough, I am sure there canna be any great strength required to amuse two or three bairns. I dare say it might be the very place for her.”
“Yes; I dare say, if it was needful for Christie to go. There will be many glad to get the place. You must speak to the Cairns’ girls, Annie.”
“Would you like to go, Christie?” asked her aunt, with a pertinacity which seemed, to Effie at least, uncalled for.
But Christie made no answer, and looked still at Effie.
“There is no use in discussing the question,” said Effie, more hastily than she meant to speak. “Christie is far better off at home. There is no need of her going. Don’t speak of it, Aunt Elsie.”
Now Aunt Elsie did not like to have any one differ from her—“to be dictated to,” as she called it. Effie very rarely expressed a different opinion from Aunt Elsie. But her usual forbearance made her doing so on the present occasion the more disagreeable to her aunt; and she did not fail to take her to task severely for what she called her disrespect.
“I didna mean to say anything disrespectful, Aunt Elsie,” said she, soothingly, and earnestly hoping that the cause of her reproof might be discussed no further. But she was disappointed.
“Wherefore should I no’ speak about this thing for Christie? If it’s no disgrace for Annie to go to service, I see no season why it should not be spoken of for Christie.”
“Disgrace, aunt!” repeated Effie. “What an idea! Of course it is nothing of the sort. But why should we speak of Christie’s going when there is no need?”
“For that matter, you may say there is no need for Annie’s going. They both need food and clothes as well as the rest.”
Effie took refuge in silence. In a little while her aunt went on:
“And as for her being a child, how much younger, pray, is she than Annie? Not above two years, at most. And as for health, she’s well enough, for all that I can see. She’s not very strong, and she wouldna have hard work; and the change might do her good. You spoil her by making a baby of her. I see no reason why the bread of dependence should be sweeter to her than to the rest.”
“It would be bitter enough, eaten at your expense,” were the words that rose to Christie’s lips in reply, Effie must have seen them there, for she gave her no time to utter them, but hastily—almost sharply—bade her run and see what had become of the girls and little Willie. Christie rose without speaking, and went out.
“Aunt,” said Effie, quietly, when she was gone, “I don’t think it is quite kind in you to speak in that way to Christie about dependence. She is no more dependent than the rest of the children. Of course, when she’s older and stronger she’ll do her part. But she is very sensitive; and she must not be made unhappy by any foolish talk about her being a burden.”
Effie meant to soothe her aunt; but she failed, for she was really angry now, and she said a great many words in her anger that I shall not write—words that Effie always tried to forget. But the result of it all was that Annie’s departure was delayed for a week, till Christie should be ready to go with her.
But I should be wrong in saying that this decision was the result of this discussion alone. There were other things that helped Effie to prevail upon herself to let her go. It would be better and pleasanter for Annie to have her sister near her; and Christie was very desirous to go. And, after all, the change might be good for her, as Aunt Elsie said. It might improve her health, and it might make her more firm and self-reliant. Going away among strangers could hardly be worse for her than a winter under the discipline of her aunt. Partly on account of these considerations, and partly because of Christie’s importunities, Effie was induced to consent to her going away; but it was with the express understanding that her absence was to be brief.
As the time of their departure drew near, she did not grow more reconciled to the thought of her sister’s going. She felt that she had been over-persuaded; and in her heart there was a doubt as to whether she had done quite right in consenting.
The last night, when all the others had gone to bed, and Effie was doing some household work below, Christie slipped down-stairs again.
“Effie,” she said, eagerly, “do not take my going away so much to heart. I am sure it is for the best, and I shall grieve if you grieve. Do think that it’s right.”
“You foolish lassie! Did you come down-stairs with bare feet to tell me that? How cold your hands are! Come and sit down by the fire. I want to speak to you.”
Christie sat down, as she was bidden, but it was a long time before Effie spoke—so long that Christie said at last:
“What is it, Effie?”
Her sister started. “I have nothing to say but what I have said before, Christie. You are not to stay if you don’t like. You are not to let any thought of any one or anything at home keep you, unless you are quite content and quite strong and well. And, at any rate, you are to come home in the spring.”
Effie had said all this before; and Christie could only repeat her promise.
“I am afraid you think I am wrong to go away, Effie?”
“No, dear; I don’t think you are wrong. I am sure your motives are good. I wish you were not going; but there is no use in saying so now. I hope it will turn out for the best to you and to us all. I will try and not be anxious about you. God will keep you safe, I do not doubt.”
“Effie,” said Christie, “do you remember what you said to me once about God’s hearing prayer, and how He always hears the prayers of His people in the best way, though not always in the way they wish and expect?”
“Yes, I mind something about it. And how all things work together for good to His people and for His glory at the same time. Yes, I mind.”
“Well,” said Christie, softly, “if folk really believe this, it will be easy for them to leave their friends in God’s hands. They can ask Him for what they need, being sure that they will get what is best for them, and that He canna make a mistake.”
There was a few minutes’ silence; and then Effie said:
“Christie, if I were sure that you are one of God’s people—one of the little lambs of His flock—I would not fear to let you go. Do you think you are?”
“I don’t know, Effie. I am afraid not. I am not like what the Bible says God’s people ought to be. But I am sure I wish to be.”
“Christie,” said her sister, earnestly, “you must never let anything hinder you from reading your Bible every day. You must not rest till you are sure about yourself.”
“Effie,” she said, in a low voice, and very seriously, “I think God did once hear a prayer of mine. It was a good while ago—before father died. It was one of my bad days; I was worse than usual; and when I came back from the pasture I sat down by the brook—under the birch-tree, you mind—and I went from one thing to another, till I said to myself, ‘I’ll see if there’s any good in praying.’ And so I prayed Aunt Elsie might not scold me when I went home; and she didna. But I didna care for that, because you were at home that night. But I prayed, too, that you might bring me a book. I meant ‘The Scottish Chiefs,’ or something; but you brought my Bible. I have thought, sometimes, that was one of the prayers answered in a better way than we ask or expect.”
The last few words were spoken in a very husky voice; and as she ceased, her head was laid on Effie’s lap. There were tears in Effie’s eyes too—she scarcely knew why. Certainly they were not for sorrow. Gently stroking her sisters drooping head, she said:
“Perhaps it was so, Christie. I believe it was; and you are right. We need not fear for one another. We will trust in Him.”