Chapter Four.
Orphanhood.
When Christie was complaining of the small vexations and unvaried sameness of her daily life, she little dreamed how near at hand was the time when Effie’s words were to prove true. Before the frost came to hush the pleasant murmur of the brook, or the snow had hidden alike the turf seat and the sear leaves of the birch-tree beside it, Christie was looking back over the stolen moments passed there on summer afternoons, with feelings with which were mingled wonder and pain and self-reproach. For the shadow of a coming sorrow was over their household. Day by day they seemed to be drawing nearer to a change which all saw, but which none had courage to name. The neighbours came and went, and spoke hopefully to the awed and anxious children; but they were grave, and said to one another that the poor young Redferns would soon be fatherless.
The harvest was quite over, and the assistance of the girls was no longer necessary out-of-doors, when one day Mr Redfern went alone to bring home the last load of turnips from a distant field; and when his children saw his face again it was like the face of the dead. Whether he had been thrown from the cart he had been driving, or whether he had fallen in some sort of fit, they could not tell. Even the doctor, who had been sent for from the next town, could not account for the state of stupor in which he found him. Two days of painful suspense passed; and then, contrary to the expectation of all, Mr Redfern opened his eyes and spoke. For a few days he seemed to revive so rapidly that the doctor had hopes of his entire recovery. It would be a work of time, he said. His back had been much injured by the fall. He could never expect to be so strong as he had been before; but he did not doubt that a few weeks would restore him to a good degree of health and strength again. And so they all took courage.
Effie, who had been summoned home, would fain have remained for the winter; but this did not seem best. The surplus of the harvest, over which she and Christie had so lately rejoiced, would be required to pay the wages of the man who must for the winter take their father’s place; and Effie’s increased salary would be of more value than ever to the family. With a face which she strove to make cheerful for the sake of those she left behind, she went away; but her heart was heavy, and when she kissed Christie a good-bye and bade her keep her courage up for the sake of all, she could hardly restrain her tears till the words were spoken.
Those who were left at home needed all the cheerfulness they could gather from each other; for it was a very dreary winter that lay before them. The passing weeks did not bring to Mr Redfern the health and strength so confidently promised by the doctor and so earnestly hoped for by his children. In her brief visits, Effie could see little change in him from week to week—certainly none for the better. He gradually came to suffer less, and was always cheerful and patient; but the times when he could be relieved from the weariness of his bed by changing his position to the arm-chair were briefer and at longer intervals.
And, in the meantime, another cloud was gathering over them. Aunt Elsie’s rheumatism, which during the autumn had given her much trouble from time to time, was growing daily worse. Painful days and sleepless nights were no longer the exception, but the rule; and not long after the coming in of the New Year, the help which for a long time she had positively and even sternly refused, became a necessity to her. She could neither rise nor lie down without assistance, and she was fast losing the use of her limbs. She was patient, or at least she strove to be, towards her nieces; but she murmured audibly against God, who had so heavily afflicted them.
The firm health and cheerful spirits of the girls, Annie and Sarah, stood them in good stead during those long months of suffering. Sarah was the housekeeper, and she fulfilled the many and complicated duties of her office with an alacrity and success that might well surprise them all. She planned and arranged with the skill of a woman of experience, and carried out her plans with an energy and patience that seldom flagged. Indeed, she seemed to find positive pleasure in the little make-shifts which their straitened means made every day more necessary, and boasted of her wonderful powers in a way so merry and triumphant that she cheered the rest when they needed it most.
Annie’s task was harder than her sister’s. The constant attendance upon the sick-beds of her father and her aunt was very trying to a girl accustomed to daily exercise in the open air; and there were days when her voice was not so cheerful nor so often heard among them as it might have been. But she was strong and patient, and grew daily more efficient as a nurse; and though she did not know it, she was getting just the discipline that she needed to check some faults and to strengthen her character at the points where it needed strengthening most.
As for Christie, she was neither nurse nor housekeeper; or rather, I ought to say, she was both by turns. It was still her duty to attend to little items here and there, which seem little when done, but the neglect of which would soon throw a household into confusion. It was “Christie, come here,” and “Christie, go there,” and “Christie, do this and that,” from morning till night, till she was too weary even to sleep when night came. Her sisters did not mean to be exacting. Indeed, they meant to be very kind and forbearing, and praised and petted her till she was ready to forget her weariness, as well as their unmindfulness of it. She did try very hard to be gentle, and patient, and useful, and almost always she succeeded; and the homecoming of Effie on Saturday night was the one event to which all her thoughts turned through the week, whether she was successful or not.
And, indeed, Christie was not the only one of them whose chief pleasure was a glimpse of Effie’s cheerful face. It did them all good to have her among them for a day or two every week. All looked to her for help and counsel; and she seldom failed or disappointed any one. Whatever sad thoughts of the present or misgivings for the future she might have, she kept them, during her visits at home, quite to herself. So they who needed it so much enjoyed the good of her cheerfulness, and she suffered the doubts and suspense and painful anxiety of an elder sister in silence.
The winter passed slowly and sadly away to the two invalids, in spite of the hopes that spring might do for them what those long winter months failed to do. March came and passed, and April brought new cares and duties. The coming of the young lambs first, and afterwards the care of the calves and the dairy, gave Annie and Sarah full employment for a time. Annie’s cheeks, that had grown thin and pale during the winter’s confinement, began to get back their bright colour again.
From this time the care of her father devolved almost entirely on Christie. Her aunt was, in one respect, better than she used to be. She rarely suffered such intense pain as during the first part of the winter; but every day was making it more apparent that she could never hope to have full use of her limbs again. To an affliction like this, Aunt Elsie could not look forward submissively. She came at last to acknowledge, in words, that her trouble was sent by God, and that she ought to submit, believing that out of the present trial He could bring blessing. But in her heart she murmured bitterly. She could not bear to think that her helplessness added greatly to the burden of care that their father’s illness had brought on these young girls. Yet her murmuring and repining spirit added to their troubles more than her helplessness did. Those days were very dreary to Aunt Elsie.
And on none of the family did the burden of her great unhappiness rest so heavily as upon Christie. Not that she had very much to do for her. After she was dressed by Annie and settled in her low chair for the day, she asked and needed little further care. Indeed, in the first misery of her helplessness she rather shrank from all assistance that was not absolutely indispensable, and almost resented all attempts to add to her comfort or relieve her pain. Christie was never quite sure that her aunt was satisfied with anything that was done for her. She never complained; but her acceptance of service seemed always under protest, as though she would fain have refused it if she had had the power. Her very sympathy with the child in her weariness was so expressed as to seem like a reproach.
In her attendance upon her father it was very different. All that was done for him was right; and his gentle thanks for her constant ministrations made the service sweet to his weary little daughter. No doubt he passed many a sorrowful day during that long and painful winter; but he suffered no murmur of his to add to the distress of those dear to him. In the silence of many a long and wakeful night, he could not but look in the face the possibility that his children might be left orphans, and the thought could not be otherwise than one of great pain. But he suffered no expression of doubt or fear to discourage them. He wished to live for their sakes; and for a long time he believed that he should live. But the hope passed away with the winter. As the days began to grow long, and the time approached when his children hoped he would be well again, the conviction gradually dawned upon him that the summer air would bring no healing. He felt that he had taken his last look of the snows of winter, that the willow buds and the pale spring blossoms that his little ones brought to him so lovingly were the last he should ever see. For himself it would be well; but for his children—! None but He who knoweth all things knew the pang that rent his heart at the thought of them! Orphans and strangers in a strange land, what was to become of his young daughters? Some of those bright May days were dark enough, as he groped amid the gloom of his great fear for them.
But the faith of the Christian triumphed. Before the time came to speak the words which were to chase all hope from their hearts, he could speak them calmly and even hopefully. The voice that never speaks in vain had said to the ear of faith, “Leave thy fatherless children with Me;” and he was thenceforth at peace. He sometimes sighed when he noticed the look of care that could not always be chased from the brow of his elder girls; but almost always he was at peace about them and their future.
As for them, they were altogether hopeful. They never saw the cloud that was growing darker and drawing nearer during those bright spring days. In after days, they wondered at their strange unconcern, and said to one another, “How could we have been so blind?” They were grave and anxious many a time, but never with the fear of death. They held long consultations together when Effie was at home; but it was always how they might arrange their affairs so that they need not vex nor annoy their father while he was not strong. They did not apprehend how near was the time when no earthly care should have power to vex him. Even Effie, more thoughtful and anxious than the rest, cheated herself with the hope that time alone was needed to restore him. Whatever Aunt Elsie saw in her brother’s changing face, she said nothing of her fears till the time for self-deception was past with them all.
When the time of his departure drew very near, they even thought him better, because he suffered less, and because a far greater part of his time was spent in his arm-chair, or in moving about the room. More than once, too, he was able, by the help of his staff and of a daughter’s willing arm, to go into the garden, or to the turf seat at the end of the house; and his enjoyment of the pleasant spring air and the pleasant spring sights and sounds beguiled them into the belief that he was becoming himself again. But, alas! it was not so. When the suffering passed away, there came in its place a feeling of restlessness that could not be controlled. There was rest for him nowhere. He grew weary of the bed, weary of the arm-chair, weary of his aimless wanderings up and down. At such times, Christie’s voice, singing or reading, had, now and then, a power to soothe, sometimes to quiet, sometimes even to put him to sleep. And, indeed, she grew very skilful in her efforts to soothe and amuse him; and at any hour of the night or day a movement of his would bring her to his side. A softly-spoken word, or the loving touch of his hand upon her head, was enough to make her forget all her weakness and weariness; and during her whole life, or, at least, since her mother’s death, Christie had passed no happier days than in that last month of her father’s life.
“Your voice is like your mother’s, Christie, my lassie,” he said one night, when all but themselves were sleeping.
Christie gave a quick look into his face. He smiled.
“Yes, and you have reminded me of her in various ways during the last few weeks. I hope you will be as good a woman as your mother was, Christie.”
She was not a demonstrative child, usually; but now she dropped her face upon her fathers hand, and he felt the fall of her warm tears. It was gently withdrawn, and laid upon her head, and in words that Christie never forgot, he prayed God to bless her. But even with the joy that thrilled her there came upon her a shudder of awe—a fearful certainty that she was listening to the words of a dying man. For a time she lay quite motionless, and her father slumbered with his hand still upon her head. He breathed quite softly and regularly, and in a little time Christie found courage to raise herself and to look into his face. There was no change on it, such as she had heard comes always to the face of the dying, and gradually the quick beating of her heart ceased. As she stood gazing, he opened his eyes and met her look.
“You are weary and wan, poor child,” he said. “You should have let Annie or Sarah be with me to-night. Lie down and rest.”
“Are you worse, father? Would you like to have me call Annie or Sarah?”
He looked surprised.
“No; I am very comfortable. I think I shall sleep. Lie down and rest, my poor, weary lamb.”
She moved the light so that his face might be in the shadow, and then laid herself down on the low bed near him. She did not mean to sleep; she thought she could not, but weariness overcame her, and she did not waken till Annie lifted the window-curtain and let the light stream in on her face. She woke with a start and a cry; but a glance at her sister’s serene face reassured her.
“You frightened little creature! What makes you jump out of your sleep in that way? I doubt if you have slept much, and yet father says he has had a good night.”
“Oh, yes, I have,” said she, with a sigh of relief. “I think I have been dreaming.”
Looking into her father’s face for confirmation of Annie’s assurance that he was better, he met her look with a smile which quite banished her fears, saying he was very comfortable and had slept well. Once or twice during the day her fears came back; but she strove to chase them away, calling herself foolish and unthankful. And she could easily do so; for he did seem really better. He conversed more than usual with Aunt Elsie—though Christie did not understand all they said. She only knew that they spoke earnestly, and that her father spoke cheerfully. Aunt Elsie looked grave and doubtful enough. “But she always does,” thought Christie. “I can judge nothing by that.”
He went farther down the garden-walk than he had ever gone yet; and he looked so cheerful, sitting in the sunshine, that Christie smiled at her unreasonable fears. Alas! that day was to be ever memorable to the Redfern children, as the last on which the sunshine ever rested on their father’s face. He never trod the garden path again.
That night Effie came home, and did not go away again till all was over. Christie never knew very well how those days passed. She remembered running down the lane to meet her sister in the twilight, and the irresistible impulse that came over her to tell of the terrible fear that had come upon her as she sat that night with her father’s hand on her head. She called herself foolish and weak, and hastened to tell her sister how much better he had been through the day, how he had walked down the garden and enjoyed the sunshine, and how easy and peaceful he had been since then. But the shadow that had fallen on Effie’s face at her first words did not pass away as she continued to speak; and it was with eyes opened to see “the beginning of the end” that she came into her father’s chamber.
She did not leave him again. Christie slept on the couch near him; but all night long Effie sat with her eyes fixed on her father’s changing face. He did not bid her lie down, as he was wont to do. He always smiled when he met her look, and once he said, “I have much to say to you, Effie;” but, while she listened for more, he slumbered again. And so the night passed.
The light of the morning made the change more visible. Sarah saw it when she came in. They did not need to tell each other what they feared. When Christie awoke, it was to see the anxious faces of the three sisters bending over their father. She rose mechanically, and stood beside them.
“Is he worse?” she asked. “He seems sleeping quietly.”
She did not need to say more.
“Annie,” said Effie, in a little time, beckoning her sister away from the bed, “Aunt Elsie must have her breakfast before she is told this; and the bairns—” Effie’s voice failed her for a moment. “We must try and keep them quiet.”
Annie said something in a low voice about the doctor; Effie shook her head.
“It’s of no use,” said Effie. “Still, we might send. I’ll tell James.” And she went out.
A little after daybreak he seemed to rouse himself for a moment; but he soon slumbered again. By and by their neighbours, who had heard from the messenger sent for the doctor that Mr Redfern was worse, came dropping in. They looked in for a moment upon the group of girls gathered round their father’s bed, and then, for the most part, seated themselves in the outer room with Aunt Elsie. Mrs Nesbitt and her son John lingered in the room, and whispered together. In a little while the mother beckoned to Effie.
“My poor bairn,” she said, “if you have anything to say to your father, or anything to ask of him, it had better be now.”
Effie gave a quick, startled look.
“Now?” she said. “So soon?”
“Effie, my bairn, for the sake of the rest,” whispered her friend.
In a minute or two she was able to take her old place by the pillow. As she bent over her father, the doctor came in. He stood for a moment looking down on him.
“Speak to him,” he said.
“Father,” said Effie, stooping, with her face close to his. “Father.”
He stirred a little at the sound of her voice, and his fingers wandered aimlessly over the coverlet.
“Is it morning?” he asked.
“Father,” repeated Effie, “Dr Grey is here.”
He opened his eyes at that, and met the look of the doctor fixed on him.
“Oh, is the end come?” he asked. “I didna think it would be so soon. Did I hear Effie’s voice? I have so much to say to her! My poor bairns!”
Effie bent her face again close to his. Her voice was low, but firm and clear.
“Father, don’t let any thought of us disturb you now. God is good. I am not afraid.”
“And your aunt, she has suffered much, sacrificed much for us. Consider her first in all things. Be guided by her.”
“Yes, father.”
“There are other things. I didna think this was to be so soon; and now it is too late. But you have some kind friends. Did I hear John Nesbitt’s voice?”
“Yes, father; he is here.” And she beckoned to John to come nearer. But he seemed to have forgotten him John stooped towards him, and said, in a low voice:
“Is there anything I can say that would make it easier for you to leave them?”
The eyes of the dying man turned towards him, slowly.
“John, you are a good man, and true. They will be very solitary. You will be their friend?”
“Always. So help me God!”
The words were spoken like the words of a vow.
The dying man’s mind seemed to wander a little after that; for he asked again if it was morning, and what was to be done in the field to-day. But Effie’s pale face bending over him seemed to recall all.
“Effie,” he said, “I leave them all with you—just as I would have left them with your mother. Be to them what she would have been to you all. You will ay be mindful of the little ones, Effie?”
“Father, with God’s help, I will,” she answered, firmly.
“Poor little ones! Poor wee Christie!” he murmured.
They brought them to him, guiding his hand till it rested on each head, one after the other.
“Fear God, and love one another.” It was all he had strength to say, now. John Nesbitt read from the Bible a verse or two now and then, speaking slowly, that the dying man might hear. Then an old man, one of the elders of the kirk, prayed by the bedside. The uneasy movement of his head upon the pillow, and the aimless efforts of his hands to grasp something, were the only signs of suffering that he gave; and when Effie took his hand in hers, these ceased.
“If Christie would sing, I think I could sleep,” he said. “Her voice is like her mother’s.”
Effie beckoned to her sister.
“Try, Christie; try,” she said.
But Christie’s lips could utter no sound. John Nesbitt began, “The Lord’s my Shepherd;” and in a little time several trembling voices joined. When they came to the verse:
“Yea, though I walk through Death’s dark vale,
Yet will I fear no ill;
For Thou art with me, and Thy rod
And staff me comfort still,—”
they rose full, clear, and triumphant. They were the last sounds he heard on earth. When they ended, Mrs Nesbitt’s hand was gently laid on their father’s eyelids, and at the sight of that the children knew they were orphans.