Chapter Nine.
Light in darkness.
The week passed. Sunday morning came; and out of a broken, uneasy slumber, Christie was awakened by the fall of rain-drops on the window. In the midst of the trouble and turmoil of the week she had striven to be patient; but through it all she had looked forward to the two hours’ respite of the Sabbath, and now it seemed to her that she could not be denied. Turning her aching eyes from the light, she did not, for a moment or two, try to restrain her tears. But she could not indulge herself long, if she had been ever so much inclined. For soon arose the clamour of childish voices, that must be stilled. So Christie rose, and bathed her hot eyes, and strove to think that, after all, the clouds were not so very thick, and they might break away in time for her to go.
“At any rate, there is no good in being vexed about it,” she said to herself. “I must try and be content at home, if I canna go.”
It was an easier matter to content herself than to her first waking thought seemed possible. She was soon busy with the little ones, quieting their noise as she washed and dressed them, partly for little Harry’s sake, and partly because it was the Sabbath-day. So earnest was she in all this that she had no time to think of her disappointment till the boys were down-stairs at breakfast with their mother. Then little Harry seemed feverish and fretful and “ill to do with,” as Mrs Greenly, who visited the attic-nursery with the baby in her arms, declared. Christie strove to soothe her fretful pet, and took him in her arms to carry him down-stairs. A gleam of sunshine met her on the way.
“It is going to be fine weather, after all,” she said to Nurse Greenly, turning round on the first landing.
But nurse seemed inclined this morning to look on the dark side of things, and shook her head.
“I’m not so sure of that,” said she. “That’s but a single gleam; and I dare say the sky is black enough, if we could see it. And hearken, child, to the wind! The streets will be in a puddle; and with those pains in your ankles you’ll never, surely, think of going out to-day?”
Christie’s face clouded again; and so did the sky, for the gleam of sunshine vanished.
“I should like to go, indeed,” said she; “and it’s only when I am very tired that my ankles pain me.”
“Tired!” repeated nurse. “Yes, and no wonder; and yet you will persist in carrying that great boy, who is far better able to carry himself. I don’t wonder that you want to go even to the church, to be out of the reach of trouble for a while.”
Christie laughed a little—she could not help it—at nurse’s energy.
“I am afraid it is partly for the quiet that I want to go,” said she, looking grave enough for a minute.
And she did go, after all, though the weather was so forbidding.
Christie’s first thought, when she entered the church, was that their hall-clock had gone wrong and made her late; for already there was scarcely a vacant seat, and it was not without difficulty that she found her way to the place she was accustomed to occupy. There were strangers in the pew, and strangers before her and around her; and with a shy and wondering feeling Christie took up her hymn-book.
The great multitude that filled the seats and thronged the aisles were waiting impatiently to hear the sound of a voice hitherto unheard among them. Christie sent now and then a curious glance over the crowded seats and aisles, and up to the galleries, from which so many grave, attentive faces looked down; but even when the stillness which followed the hum and buzz of the coming in of the congregation was broken by the clear, grave tones of a stranger’s voice, it never occurred to her that it was the voice of one whose eloquence had gathered and held many a multitude before. In a little while she forgot the crowd and everything else. At first she strained her short-sighted eyes in the direction of the voice, eagerly but vainly. But this soon ceased; and by the time the singing and the prayers were over, she only listened.
To many in the house that day, the word spoken by God’s servant was as “a very lovely song of one that hath a pleasant voice and can play well on an instrument.” To many it was a stumbling-block, and to many more foolishness. But to the weary child, who sat there with her head bowed down, and her face hidden in her hands, it was “Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God unto salvation.” She forgot the time, the place, and the gathered multitude. She forgot her own weakness and weariness. She forgot even the speaker in the words he spoke. In a little while she grew unconscious of the tears she had tried to hide, and her hands fell down on her lap, and her wet cheeks and smiling lips were turned towards the face that her dim eyes failed to see.
I cannot tell what were the words that so moved her. It was not that the thoughts were new or clothed in loftier language than she was wont to hear. It was the old but ever new theme, set forth in the old true way, reverently and simply, by lips which—long ago touched by a coal from the altar—had answered to the heavenly voice, “Here am I; send me.” It was God’s love, intimated by many a sign and made visible by many a token, but first and best of all by this, that “He spared not His own Son, but gave Him up to die for us all.”
No, the words were neither new nor strange; and yet they seemed to be both to her. It was not as though she were listening to spoken words. There seemed to be revealed to her, as in a vision, a glimpse of mysteries into which the angels desire to look. Her eyes were open to see God’s plan of salvation in its glorious completeness, Christ’s finished work in all its suitableness and sufficiency, His grace in all its fullness and freeness. Oh, that wondrous grace! Angels gaze from afar, while ascribing to its Author greatness and power and glory. But the redeemed have a higher and more thrilling song put into their mouths.
“Unto Him who loved us, and gave Himself for us!” they sing; and then and there this child had a foretaste of their unspeakable blessedness. It was as “the chiefest among ten thousand, and altogether lovely,” that she saw Him now; and love supreme, and entire trust and peacefulness, took possession of her heart. Very sinful, and weak and unworthy she saw herself to be; but she saw also that the grace that can pardon, justify, purify, and save is the more glorious on that very account. Her sins no longer rose between her and God. They were removed from her “as far as the east is from the west.” They were cast altogether behind His back, to be remembered against her no more for ever.
If before to-day Christie had been one of Christ’s little ones—if she had had a place in the fold, and had now and then caught a glimpse of the green pastures and the still waters where the “Good Shepherd” leads His flock—it was to-day for the first time that she realised the blessedness of her calling. Her little Bible, and her murmured prayer night and morning, amid the sleeping children, had more than any other thing, more than all other things together, helped her quietly and cheerfully through the weary winter. Clinging now to one promise, and now to another, she had never been quite without the light and help that seemed to come from above. But to-day it was not a solitary promise. It was not even the sense that all the promises to God’s people from generation to generation were hers to rely upon. It was the blessedness of the knowledge that began to dawn, like heaven’s own light, upon her, the knowledge that she was no longer her own, but His who had bought her with a price—His to have and to hold, in sorrow and joy, through life and in death, henceforth and for ever. Now, “neither life, nor death, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, could separate her from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Silently, with the thoughtful or thoughtless multitude, she passed from the house of prayer. Yet her soul was sending up a song of praise that reached the heaven of heavens. A forlorn little figure she must have seemed to any chance eye that rested on her as she picked her way among the pools that had settled here and there on the pavement. It was only by a great effort that she held her own against the wind and rain, that threatened to carry away her shawl, and rendered vain her attempts to shield her faded crape bonnet with a still more faded umbrella. If one among the crowd who met or passed her on her way took any notice of her at all, it must have been to smile at or to pity her. Yet over her angels in the high heavens were rejoicing. In her heart was the peace that passeth understanding, soon to blossom forth into joy unspeakable and full of glory.
Heedless alike of smiles and pity, she hastened along, unconscious of discomfort. Even the near approach to the house, and the thought of the peevish children and the dim attic-nursery, had no power to silence the song that her grateful soul was singing. She went up the stone steps without her accustomed sigh of weariness; and the face that greeted Mrs Greenly as she opened the door, though pale enough, and wet with rain-drops, was a very pleasant face for any one to see.
“You foolish child!” Mrs Greenly exclaimed, eyeing the little figure that stood on the door-mat. “You would have been better at home.”
Something in Christie’s face kept her from saying more.
“I am very glad I went—very glad,” said Christie, stooping to take off her wet shoes, that she might not soil Nelly’s spotless oilcloth; and as she gathered them up and faced Mrs Greenly again, she repeated, softly:
“I am very, very glad! You haven’t needed me much, have you? How is wee Harry?”
Nurse took no notice of her question, but looking gravely at her, said:
“I wonder the wind didn’t carry you away, poor child!”
“It very nearly did,” said Christie, laughing. “I am very glad to be safe within doors again; but I am very glad I went, for all that.”
“But you are wet through!” said nurse, laying her hand on her shoulder. “Go and change your clothes this very moment. Stay,” she added, as Christie began to ascend the stairs. “If the children get a sight of you there will be an end of your peace. Go down to the kitchen, and I will bring down your things for you.”
Christie looked wonderingly into her face.
“You are very kind. But you need not take the trouble. I’m not so very wet.”
“Do as I bid you,” said Mrs Greenly, impatiently. “You’ll be ill with those pains in your ankles again. And you have a weary week before you, or I’m mistaken.”
“What is it?” asked Christie, in alarm.
“It may be little, after all; but little Harry seems far from well, and his mother is naturally anxious. At any rate, I’m going to call for the doctor this afternoon, and if it should prove that he has taken the fever, why, I must stay for a week, and you have the prospect of a longer confinement in the attic-nursery.”
It was too true. Little Harry was very ill—much worse than his sister had been at first. The doctor looked very grave when he saw him that afternoon, and positively directed that the other children should be kept away from the room. But Christie was not sent with them to the attic.
Having caught a glimpse of her passing the door, Harry could not be pacified till he found himself in her arms; and not even his mother could beguile him from her through all that long afternoon. He was very feverish, and seemed to suffer much, poor little fellow. Sometimes she soothed his restlessness by singing to him in a low voice, or by telling him the tales that had amused him many a time during the long winter. Sometimes she walked about with him in her arms; but she was not able to do this very long, and so she sat on a low chair, rocking him gently in her arms. The other children were down-stairs with Nelly. Mrs Greenly had gone out to make arrangements for a longer stay; and poor Mrs Lee, anxious and unhappy, went in and out of the nursery, unable to quiet herself or to take the rest she so much needed.
It was nearly dark when the doctor came in again, and the little boy had fallen into an uneasy slumber. The doctor started slightly when he saw Christie, and said, rather hastily—
“I thought I told you to keep away?”
The child stirred and murmured as the light was brought in, and Christie hushed him softly; but she made no reply. Mrs Lee spoke for her:
“But he was so restless, doctor, and seemed so uncomfortable after you went away; and we could do nothing to quiet him till Christie took him. He is very fond of her.”
The doctor laid his hand on the hot forehead of the little patient, but his eye was on Christie.
“Have you ever had the fever?” he asked.
“I am not sure. I think I had it when I was a child. But I am not afraid of it.”
“When you were a child! That could not have been a long time ago, I should imagine,” said the doctor, smiling a little, as he looked into the earnest face turned towards him. “But I dare say you will do as well for Harry as Nurse Greenly herself could do.”
“Is he in danger? Is he worse than Letty was?” asked his mother.
“Oh, no! He is by no means so ill as she was at one time,” said the doctor, cheerfully. “And a fine rugged little fellow like Harry may get through much better than his sister. But, at the same time, this fever sometimes becomes more severe as the season advances, and it is as well to keep the other children away. Not that I think there is any particular danger for any of them—even the baby; but being weaned so young, and her teeth coming, it is as well to be cautious. So if Christie is to nurse Harry, she may as well have nothing to do with the baby—or the boys.”
Mrs Lee looked still harassed and anxious.
“There is no harm done,” continued the doctor, soothingly. “If Christie has to be with the other children, she should not be with Harry. But if Harry is so fond of her, perhaps she had better stay with him to-night, at any rate. I dare say you can manage without her up-stairs for one night?”
“Oh, yes! we can do very well,” said Mrs Lee.
“When do you expect Mr Lee home?” asked the doctor.
Mrs Lee shook her head. “I have been expecting him every day for a week. He must come soon, now, or write. He has not yet heard of Letty’s illness. I was so glad it was over before he came! and now Harry, and perhaps the others—” She stopped short, but soon added, “I hope nurse will not need to go.”
“No, it’s not likely; and even if she should, you will manage with some one for the other children. I am quite willing to trust my patients with this careful little person, since she is not afraid. The little fellow seems quite fond of her. I suppose you don’t mind being kept awake a little for one night?” he said, as he again stooped over the flushed face of the little boy.
“Oh, no! And even if I go to sleep, I wake very easily. The least movement wakes me. I think you can trust me, ma’am; and I can call you or Mrs Greenly at any moment, you know.”
“I have trusted her all the winter, as I have never been able to trust any one with the children before,” said Mrs Lee to the doctor. “Christie has been very good to the children, and to me too. I am only afraid I have put too much on her—such a child as she is.”
Christie’s face, which had been pale enough before, crimsoned all over with pleasure at the words of Mrs Lee.
“I am quite strong; at least, I am much stronger than I look,” she said.
“Well, you are to stay with little Harry to-night, at any rate, and I hope I may find him much better in the morning,” said the doctor.
He gave some further directions about the child’s drink and medicine, and went away. Christie heard him in the passage urging upon Mrs Lee the necessity of keeping herself quiet and taking rest. The child, he assured her, was in no danger; but he would not answer for the consequences to herself should she suffer her over-anxiety to bring on a return of the illness from which she had only just recovered. He did not leave her till he saw her resting on the sofa in her own room; and Christie did not see her again till the house had become quiet for the night. Mrs Greenly had paid one brief visit to the sick-room, and then, weary with the exertions of the week, betook herself to the attic-nursery to rest. Christie was left quite alone but her solitary musings were not so sad as they had been many a time. And sitting there in the dim light of the night-lamp, she said to herself, “I can never, never have such sad thoughts again.”