Chapter Fourteen.
New friends.
The house seemed very quiet after Mrs Seaton went away. For that day and the next, Christie and her little charge were left to the solitude of the green room and the garden. Miss Gertrude and Clement had gone to visit their aunt, and not knowing when they might return, Christie was beginning to wonder what she should do during the long hours that her little charge slept or amused himself quietly without her. There were no books in the green room—at least, there were none she cared for. In the nursery there were a few story-books for little children—fairy tales, and rhymes, with pictures of giants and dwarfs and little old women, among which Christie recognised some that had been great favourites long ago. But after the first glance she cared no more for them.
On the morning of the third day, when Claude was taking his nap, the time began to hang heavy on her hands. She took her Bible and read a chapter or two, but in spite of herself she grew dull and dreary. The stillness of the house oppressed her. The other servants were busy in a distant apartment. She seemed quite shut in from all the world. Just opposite the window was a large locust-tree, which hid the garden from her; and the only sound that reached her was the murmur of the wind among its branches, and the hum of the bees that now and then rested a moment among the few blossoms that still lingered on them. Her thoughts turned homewards.
“I might write to Effie,” she said to herself. But she was not sufficiently in the mood for it to go to her trunk for her small store of paper and pens; and she sat still, with her head leaning on her hands and her eyes fixed on the swaying leaves, vaguely conscious that the indulgence of her present mood was not the best thing for her.
She was not permitted to indulge it long, however. The little boy stirred and tossed in his crib, and she went to arrange the coverlet over him; and as she was moving listlessly about the room, something glistened in a stray sunbeam and caught her short-sighted eyes, and from the cushions of the great easy-chair, where it had lain since the first day of her coming, she drew the book that Miss Gertrude had been reading when she watched the pretty picture she made as she sat beneath the drooping leaves.
With a cry of delight, she recognised her old favourite, “The Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life.” The very same! though this was glittering in blue and gold, a perfect contrast to the little, brown-covered book, with the title-page lost, which had made Christie forget her bread and her cooling oven on that unhappy day. But the remembrance of the old time and the old favourite came back all the more vividly because of the contrast. The memory of the old times came back. Oh, how long ago it seemed since that summer afternoon when she lay on the grass and read it for the first time! Yet how vividly it all came back! The blue sky, with the white clouds passing over it now and then, the sound of the wind among the low fir-trees, the smell of the hawthorn hedge, the voices of the children in the lane beyond, seemed once more above her and around her. And then the sound of her mother’s gentle chiding, when she found her sitting there after the shadows had grown long, came back. Her voice, her smile, the very gown and cap she wore, and the needlework she carried in her hand, came sensibly before her. Yet how long ago it seemed! Christie remembered how many times she had taken it with her to the fields, when the incompleteness of their fences during the first year of their stay on the farm had made the “herding” of the sheep and cows necessary that the grain might be safe. She had read it in the woods in spring-time, by the firelight in the long winter evenings, and by stealth on Sundays, when the weather had kept her from the kirk. It was associated in her remembrance with many things pleasant and many things sad; and no wonder that for a while she turned over the leaves, catching only here and there a glimpse of the familiar words, because of the tears that hid them.
Sitting on the floor, with the book held close to her face, she read, and forgot all else. The little lad tossed and murmured, and mechanically she put forth her hand and rocked him in his crib; but she neither heard nor saw when the door opened and some one came in.
It was Miss Gertrude. A look of surprise passed over her face as she caught a glimpse of the reader on the floor, but it gave place to interest and amusement as she watched her. Her absorbed look never changed, even when she rocked and murmured soothing words to the restless child. She read on—sometimes smiling, sometimes sighing, but never lifting her eyes—till Miss Gertrude came forward and spoke.
“Well, how have you been getting on?”
Christie started, as if it had been Aunt Elsie’s voice she heard; and at the look of astonishment and dismay that spread itself over her face, the young lady laughed.
“How has Claude been, all these days?” she asked, softly, as she bent over the crib.
“He has been quite well and quite good, I think,” said Christie, trying to collect her scattered wits.
“Has the doctor been here?” asked Miss Gertrude.
“Yes; he was here this morning. He asked when you were coming home, but I couldn’t tell him.”
“Well, I’m here now; and I’m going to stay, too! If the doctor thinks he is going to banish Clement and me from home for the next month, he will find himself mistaken. For my part, I don’t see the use of his coming here so often, just to shake his head and look grave over poor little Claude. Of course the child’s mother wishes it; but it is all nonsense.”
Christie looked at her in astonishment. But that the words were so quietly and gravely spoken, she would have thought them uncalled for, not to say impertinent, from a girl scarcely older than herself. They needed no reply, however, and she made none.
She did not then know that Mrs Seaton was not Gertrude’s own mother, and that she was only half-sister to the two little boys, upon whom she looked as mere children, whilst she felt herself a young lady.
“Have you been lonely here?” she asked, in a few minutes.
“A little. It is very quiet,” said Christie, hesitatingly. “But I like it.”
“Is Claude fond of you?” asked Gertrude, gravely.
Christie smiled a little.
“He does not object to me. I dare say he will be fond of me in time. I am sure he will be very glad to see you and his brother. It is very quiet for him to be left alone with me.”
“But the doctor wishes him to be quiet,” said Gertrude; “and his mother won’t have him vexed on any account. I have seen her quite tremble when his brother has come near him; and after all it is no wonder.”
“Clement is so strong,” said Christie; “but he will learn to be gentle with his brother in time. How very much alike they used to be! We used to see them driving together. We didn’t know their names, but we always called them the two pretty boys.”
“Yes, they were very much alike; and it will grieve Clement, when he is older, to know— Did you never hear about it? They were playing together, and Claude fell. The doctor thinks that fall was the cause of his illness. His mother can’t bear to think so, it is so sad; and besides, it seems to make his illness more hopeless. I am afraid he will never be strong and well again.”
“Oh, don’t say so,” said Christie, sadly, quite shocked at what she heard. “Please God, he will be well again. He is only a child; and children outlive so much. For two or three years no one thought I should live to grow up. But I am quite well now.”
“You are not a giant yet, nor very strong either. At least you don’t look so,” said Gertrude.
“But I shall grow strong here in the country. I am better already since I came. Do you really think that little Master Claude will never be strong and well again?”
“I don’t know. I cannot tell. But Aunt Barbara says the doctor is not at all hopeful about it, though he speaks hopefully to mother. Aunt Barbara thinks if the poor little fellow should live, he may be deformed, or lame for life. I think it would be much better for him to die now, than to live to be deformed or a cripple.”
“I don’t know. I can’t tell,” said Christie, looking with a vague wonder from the sleeping child to the sister who spoke so quietly about his great misfortune. “It is well we have not to decide about these things. God knows best.”
“Yes, I suppose so. It is in vain to murmur, whatever may happen. But there is a deal of trouble in the world.” And the young lady sighed, as though she had her share of it to bear.
Christie’s astonishment increased. Looking at the young lady, she said to herself that it was doubtful whether she knew in the least what she was talking about.
“Troubles in the world? Yes, doubtless there are—plenty of them! But what could she know of them?”
“Are you fond of reading?” asked Gertrude, after a little time, her eye falling on the book which Christie still held.
“Yes,” said Christie; “I like to read. This is the book you left the other day. I only found it a little while ago.”
“Have you read much of it? There are some pretty stories in it, I think.”
“Oh, yes; I read the book long ago. It was one of our favourites at home. I like to read anything about home—about Scotland, I mean.”
“And so do I,” said Gertrude. “I knew you were Scotch when I heard you speak. Is it long since you came? Have you been here long? Tell me all about it.”
In the short half-hour before Claude awoke, there was not time to tell all about it, but the young girls told each other enough to awaken a mutual interest.
Miss Gertrude’s mother had died when she was quite young, and she had been committed to the care of an aunt, with whom she had continued to reside for some time, even after the second marriage of her father. She had had a very happy home, and had been educated with great care. Looking back on those days now, she could see no shadow on their calm brightness. She had had her childish troubles, I suppose, but she forgot them all as she went on to describe to Christie her merry life with her young cousins and her friends. Her aunt’s death had broken all those pleasant ties, and she had come to Canada, which must be her home till she was grown up. When she should be of age, she told Christie, and could claim the fortune her mother had left her, she was going home again to live always. She did not like Canada. It did not seem like home to her, though she was living in her father’s house. She longed for the time when she should be her own mistress.
Christie didn’t enjoy the last part of her story very well. She could not help thinking that some of the trials that the young lady hinted at existed only in her own imagination. But she did not say so. She listened to the whole with unabated interest, and in return, told Gertrude the story of her own life. It was given in very few words. She told about her mother’s death, and their coming to Canada, and what happened to them afterwards, till they had been obliged to leave the farm and separate.
It is just possible that the young lady, who sat listening so quietly to these simple details, took to herself the lesson which the story was so well calculated to teach. But Christie had no thought of giving her a lesson. She told of Effie’s wise and patient guidance of their affairs, of the self-denial cheerfully practised by all, of her own eager desire to do her part to help keep the little ones together, of Effie’s slow consent to let her go; all this, far more briefly and quietly than Miss Gertrude had spoken of her childish days that were passed in her aunt’s house. By experience the young lady knew nothing of the real trials of life. She had no rule by which to estimate the suffering which comes from poverty and separation, from solitary and uncongenial toil. Yet, as she sat listening there, she caught a glimpse of something that made her wish she had said less about the troubles that had fallen to her lot. Christie faltered a little when she came to speak of the first months of her stay in town, and of the time when her sister went away.
“I was very, very home-sick. If it hadn’t been for shame, I would have gone at the end of the first month. And when my sister went away in the spring, and left me here, it was almost as bad. It seems like a troubled dream to look back upon it. But it has passed now. It will never be so bad again—never, I am sure.”
“You have got over your home-sickness, then? And are you quite contented now?” she asked, with great interest.
“Yes, I think so. I think it is right to stay. I am very glad to stay, especially now that I am out here, in the country almost. There was a while in the spring that I was afraid I should not be able to stay. But I am better now. I shall soon be quite strong.”
The little boy stirred in his crib, and his eyes opened languidly. Christie was at his side in a moment. To the astonishment of his sister, he suffered himself to be lifted out and dressed without his usual fretful cry.
“How nicely you manage him!” she said, at last. “This used to be a troublesome business to all concerned.”
Christie did, indeed, manage nicely. Her experience with the little Lees stood her in good stead now. She was very quick, and gentle and firm with the little boy, beguiling him from his fretfulness by little tales or questions, or merry childish talk, till the last string was tied and the last of his beautiful curls arranged. Then he was put in his favourite place among the cushions of the great chair, and the chair was drawn close to the window. Gertrude leaned over him for a moment, and then, kneeling down, she kissed his little white hands, and stroked his thin, pale face, her own looking grave enough all the while.
“He scarcely knows me now,” she said. “He has almost forgotten me since he has been so ill. But we shall be friends again, my dear little brother.”
“Where’s Clement?” asked the child. “He is your little boy.”
“Oh, but I want two little boys. I want a little boy to take care of and love with all my heart—a gentle, patient little boy, who doesn’t fret and cry when he is dressed, any more. I want a little boy to take into the garden in his little carriage, and to be my little boy always.”
“Christie takes me into the garden. I like Christie she’s good.”
“I’m quite sure of it,” said Miss Gertrude. “Listen: There is Clement. Shall I open the door and call him in, if he will promise to be good?”
What a contrast they made! The cheeks of one flushed with health, his bright eyes dancing with happiness, the other—oh, so wan and thin and fragile! Miss Gertrude’s eyes filled with tears as she tried to restrain Clement’s eager caresses. They were very glad to see each other. Climbing up into the chair beside him, Clement put his arms round his brother’s neck and stroked his cheeks.
“You’ll soon be well now, Claudie,” he said, “and we’ll go and see the pony. Oh, such a fine fellow as he is! You’re getting well now, aren’t you?” he added, wistfully.
“Yes, I’m well; but I am too tired,” said Claude, laying himself back among the pillows, with a sigh. Miss Gertrude lifted Clement down, and held him firmly, saying:
“Clement is not going to tire you any more. He is going to be very gentle and good when Christie lets us come in here; and by and by we will go and sit under the locust-tree and be very good and happy all together.”
And so they did that afternoon, and many afternoons besides. A very happy time they had. Far from banishing Miss Gertrude and little Clement, the doctor encouraged them to be much with the sick boy. The noisy Clement was permitted to become the almost constant companion of his brother, on certain conditions. He was never permitted to weary him or vex him. A walk with his brother was made the reward of good behaviour; and banishment from the green room for an entire day was felt to be so severe a punishment that it was not insisted upon more than once or twice during the time of his mother’s absence. Upon both the boys this intercourse had a very beneficial effect. The little invalid brightened under the influence of Clement’s merry ways, now that the watchful care of Miss Gertrude or Christie kept his mirth within bounds, and prevented him from being wearied with too boisterous play.
The whole of the pleasant summer morning was passed by him in the open air. Up and down the broad garden-walks he was drawn, when the weather was fine. Sometimes he was content to sit for hours in the shadow of the locust-tree near the window, or in the pleasant cedar walk at the other end of the grounds. Sometimes he was permitted to walk a little while on the lawn; and in a few days the dawning colour on cheek and lip was hailed as a hopeful sign of returning health.
Christie grew quite satisfied with her new place, and devoted herself to her little charge with an interest that was untiring; and the increasing affection of the little boy made her service day by day more pleasant to her.
Of Miss Gertrude she scarcely knew what to make. She was always very kind to her, and spent much time with her and little Claude, either in the garden or in the green room. But she was not gentle and pleasant to all the world. She was sometimes full of impatient and discontented thoughts, and now and then let fall words that proved this too plainly. Christie was sometimes pained, and sometimes amused, as she listened to her. Like too many young people, she had a keener eye for defects than for excellences of character; and she never hesitated to amuse herself at the expense of those with whom she came in contact. Sometimes her remarks were amusing and harmless enough, but too often they were unkind and severe; and more than once she tried to place in a ludicrous light characteristics which she could not but acknowledge were real excellences. Christie had an uncomfortable consciousness that there was something wrong in all this, even amid the interest and admiration which the young girl had awakened in her, but she was very far from realising how wrong this spirit of criticism is, or how injurious the indulgence of it might prove to Miss Gertrude.
These things, as they came up, marred but little Christie’s admiration of her bright and winning ways. The young lady’s impatience and pride were never manifested where she or the boys were concerned; and the charm there was in constant intercourse with one of her own age was delightful. Notwithstanding the difference in station, the two young girls had many subjects of interest common to both, which they were never weary of discussing.
The enjoyment of their companionship was not all on Christie’s side. Since her residence in her father’s house, Miss Gertrude had had no companions of her own age for whose society she cared. She was constantly surprised and delighted to find how entirely her brother’s little nurse could understand and sympathise with some of her moods and fancies. She brought out her favourite books and discussed her favourite subjects, and spoke to her of many things as she had never spoken to any one since she bade adieu to her young cousins at home.
It cannot be denied that Christie’s evident admiration of her helped to bespeak Miss Gertrude’s good-will. But the young lady was not very vain. She really liked Christie, and took pleasure in her society; and she admired the tact and patience with which she managed Little Claude.
The first few days of their intercourse was to each like the reading of a pleasant book; nor did their interest in each other fail as they grew better acquainted.