Chapter Nineteen.
More changes.
But I must not linger with Miss Gertrude and her troubles. It is the story of Christie that I have to tell. They went the same way for a little while, but their paths were now to separate.
For that came to pass which Gertrude had dreaded when Mr Sherwood went away. It was decided that she should go to school. She was too young to go into society. Her step-mother, encouraged by Miss Atherton, might have consented to her sharing all the gaieties of a rather gay season, and even her father might have yielded against his better judgment, had she herself been desirous of it. But she was not. She was more quiet and grave than ever, and spent more time over her books than was at all reasonable, as Miss Atherton thought, now that no lessons were expected from her.
She grew thin and pale, too, and was often moody, and sometimes irritable. She moped about the house, and grew stupid for want of something to do, as her father thought; and so, though it pained him to part with her, and especially to send her away against her will, he suffered himself to be persuaded that nothing better could happen to her in her present state of mind than to have earnest occupation under the direction of a friend of the family, who took charge of the education of a few young ladies in a pleasant village not far from their home.
It grieved her much to go. She had come to love her little brothers better than she knew till the time for parting drew near. This, and the dread of going among strangers, made her unhappy enough during the last few days of her stay.
“I can’t think how the house will seem without you,” said Christie to her, one night, as they were sitting together beside the nursery fire.
Gertrude turned so as to see her as she sat at work, but did not answer her for a minute or two.
“Do you know, I was just thinking whether my going away would make the least bit of difference in the world to you?” she said, at last.
There was no reply to be made to this, for Christie thought neither the words nor the manner quite kind, after all the pleasant hours they had passed together. She never could have guessed the thoughts that were in Gertrude’s mind in the silence that followed. She was saying to herself, almost with tears, how gladly she would change places with Christie, who was sitting there as quietly as if no change of time or place could make her unhappy. For her discontent with herself had by no means passed away. It had rather deepened as her study of the Bible became more earnest, and the strong, pure, unselfish life of which she had now and then caught glimpses seemed more than ever beyond her power to attain. When she tried most, it seemed to her that she failed most; and the disgust which she felt on account of her daily failures had been gradually deepening into a sense of sinfulness that would not be banished. She strove to banish it. She was indignant with herself because of her unhappiness, but she struggled vainly to cast it off. And when to this was added the sad prospect of leaving home, it was more than she could bear.
She had come up-stairs that night with a vague desire to speak to Christie about her troubles, and she had been trying to find suitable words, when Christie spoke. Her ungracious reply did not make a beginning any easier. It was a long time before either of them said another word, and it was Christie who spoke first.
“Maybe, after all, you will like school better than you expect,” she said. “Things hardly ever turn out with us as we fear.”
“Well, perhaps so. I must just take things as they come, I suppose.”
The vexation had not all gone yet, Christie thought, by her tone; so she said no more. In a little while she was quite startled by Miss Gertrude’s voice, it was so changed, as she said:
“All day long this has been running in my mind: ‘Whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst.’ What does it mean?”
“Jesus said it to the woman at the well,” said Christie. And she added: “‘But the water that I shall give him shall be in him as a well of water springing up to everlasting life.’”
“What does it mean, do you think—‘shall never thirst’?”
Christie hesitated. Of late their talks had not always been pleasant. Gertrude’s vexed spirit was not easy to deal with, and her questions and objections were not always easily answered.
“I don’t know; but I think the ‘living water’ spoken about in the other verses means all the blessings that Christ has promised to His people.”
She paused.
“His people—always His people!” said Miss Gertrude to herself.
“God’s Spirit is often spoken of under the figure of water,” continued Christie. “‘I will pour water on him that is thirsty!’ and in another place Jesus Himself says, ‘If any man thirst, let him come unto Me and drink.’ Such an expression must have been very plain and appropriate to the people of that warm country, where water was necessary and not always easily got.”
Christie had heard all this said; and she repeated it, not because it answered Miss Gertrude’s question, but because she did not know what else to say. And all the time she was trying to get a glimpse of the face which the young lady shaded with her hand. She wanted very much to say something to do her good, especially now that they were about to part. The feeling was strong in Christie’s heart, at the moment, that though Miss Gertrude might return again, their intercourse could never be renewed—at least not on the same footing; and though it hurt her much to know it, her own pain was quite lost in the earnest desire she felt in some way or other to do Miss Gertrude good. So, after a pause, she said, again—
“I suppose ‘to thirst’ means to earnestly desire. ‘Blessed are they who hunger and thirst after righteousness,’ you remember. And David says, ‘As the hart panteth after the water-brook, so panteth my soul after Thee, O God!’ And in another place, ‘My soul thirsteth for Thee.’”
Gertrude neither moved nor spoke, and Christie went on—
“And when it is said of them, ‘They shall never thirst,’ I suppose it means they shall be satisfied out of God’s fulness. Having His best gift, all the rest seems of little account. ‘Blessed is the man whom Thou choosest, and causest to approach near unto Thee, that he may dwell in Thy courts: he shall be satisfied with the goodness of Thy house, and of Thy holy temple.’ And in another place, ‘My soul shall be satisfied as with marrow and fatness, and my mouth shall praise Thee with joyful lips.’” And then, as she was rather apt to do when deeply in earnest, breaking into the old familiar Scottish version, she added—
“‘They with the fatness of Thy house
Shall be well satisfied;
From rivers of Thy pleasures Thou
Wilt drink to them provide.
Because of life the fountain pure
Remains alone with Thee;
And in that purest light of Thine
We clearly light shall see.’”
She stopped, partly because she thought she had said enough, and partly because it would not have been easy just then to have said more. Her face drooped over her work, and there was silence again.
“Well,” said Miss Gertrude, with a long breath, “it must be a wonderful thing to be satisfied, as you call it.”
“Yes,” said Christie, softly; “and the most wonderful thing of all is that all may enjoy this blessedness, and freely, too.”
“I have heard you say that before,” said Miss Gertrude; “but it is all a mystery to me. You say all who will may have this blessedness; but the Bible says it is the man whom God chooses that is blessed.”
“Well,” said Christie, gravely, “what would you have? ‘By grace are ye saved through faith, and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God.’ ‘The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.’ There is nothing in all the Bible clearer than that. And surely eternal life is a gift worthy of God to give.”
“But He does not give it to all,” said Miss Gertrude.
“To all who desire it—to all who seek for it in Jesus’ name,” said Christie, earnestly.
“But in another place it says, ‘No man can come unto Me, except the Father, who hath sent Me, draw him.’”
Gertrude did not speak to-night, as she had sometimes done of late, in the flippant way which thoughtless young people often assume when they talk on such subjects. Her voice and manner betrayed to Christie that she was very much in earnest, and she hesitated to answer her; not, as at other times, because she thought silence was the best reply, but because she longed so earnestly to say just what was right.
“This change which is so wonderful must be God’s work from beginning to end, you once said,” continued Gertrude. “And since we have no part in the work, I suppose we must sit and wait till the change comes, with what patience we may.”
“It is God’s work from beginning to end,” repeated Christie, thoughtfully. “We cannot work this change in ourselves. We cannot save ourselves, in whole or in part. Nothing can be clearer than that.”
“Well?” said Gertrude, as she paused.
“Why, it would be strange indeed if so great a work was left to creatures so weak and foolish as we are. None but God could do it. And if a child is hungry or thirsty or defiled, what needs he to know more than that there is enough and to spare for all his wants in the hands of a loving Father? There would be no hope for us if this great change were to be left to us to work. But the work being God’s, all may hope. I suppose I know what you mean,” she added. “I have heard my father, and Peter O’Neil, and others, speak about these things. Peter used to say, ‘If God means to save me He will save me; and I need give myself no trouble about it.’ That is true in one sense, but not in the sense that Peter meant. I wish I could mind what my father used to say to him, but I cannot. Somehow, I never looked at it in that way. It seemed to me such a wonderful and blessed thing that God should have provided a way in which we could be saved, and then that He should save us freely, that, it never came into my mind to vex myself with thoughts like these. I was young, only a child, but I had a great many troubled unhappy thoughts about myself; and to be able to put them all aside—to leave them all behind, as it were, and just trust in Jesus, and let Him do all for me—oh, I cannot tell you the blessed rest and peace it was to me! But I did not mean to speak about myself.”
“But I want you to tell me,” said Gertrude, softly.
“I cannot tell you much,” said Christie, gravely. “I am not wise about such things. I know there are some who make this a stone to stumble over—that we can do nothing, and we must just wait. But don’t you remember how it is said, ‘Seek ye the Lord while He may be found; call ye upon Him when He is near.’ ‘They that seek Me early shall find Me.’ And in the New Testament, ‘Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find.’ And Jesus Himself said, ‘If any man thirst, let him come unto Me and drink.’ And in another place it is said, ‘The Spirit and the bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.’
“Surely all this means something. God would never bid us come unless He was willing to receive us. Having given His Son to die for us, how can we doubt His willingness to receive us? Surely no one who is weary and heavy-laden need stay away, when He bids them come. He says, ‘I will heal your backslidings; I will receive you graciously; I will love you freely. A new heart will I give to you, and a right spirit will I put within you.’ Ah, that is the best of all!”
There was a pause again, and then Christie added—
“I can’t say all I wish to say. Though I see all this clearly myself, I haven’t the way of making it clear to others. But there is one thing sure. It is just those who feel themselves to be helpless that have reason to hope. ‘For while we were yet without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly.’ Why need any one hesitate after that?”
Little more was said; but if ever Christie prayed earnestly she prayed for Gertrude at that hour. And afterwards, when they met again, in circumstances well calculated to dispel all foolish shyness in speaking about such things, Gertrude told her that she too was praying as she had never prayed before. And the happy tears that stood in their eyes as they spoke afforded good evidence that these petitions, though silent, had not ascended in vain.
The days that followed the departure of Gertrude were uneventful ones. Only one thing happened before spring came to break the quiet routine of Christie’s life. The little boy Claude loved her better every day, but no better than she loved him. And as time passed on, and his health, notwithstanding the frequent recurrence of bad days and sudden turns of illness, continued steadily to improve, the influence for good which his little nurse and her simple teachings had over him became more apparent to all the household.
She was treated by Mrs Seaton with a consideration which she had not been in the habit of showing her servants. Hitherto the daily drives of the little invalid had been shared by his mother or Gertrude, while Christie was expected during their absence to perform such duties in the nursery as could not well be attended to while the children were with her. But after Gertrude went away it was usually so arranged that Christie should go with him. She was growing tall, but she was very slender; and though she never complained of illness, it was easy to be seen that she had not much strength to fall back upon. Grateful for her loving care of her helpless little boy, Mrs Seaton spared her all possible labour, while she trusted her implicitly in all that concerned both children.
“If she were only a little stronger, I should consider myself very fortunate in having a nurse in every way so suitable for my little boy,” said Mrs Seaton many a time. And many a time, as the spring approached, Christie said to herself:
“If I were only a little stronger!”
The one event that broke the monotony of her life after Miss Gertrude went away was a visit from her sister Effie. The visit was quite unlooked for. Christie returned from a walk with Claude one day, to find her sister awaiting her in the upper nursery. To say that the surprise was a joyful one would be saying little, yet after the first tearful embrace, the joy of both sisters was manifested very quietly. The visit was to be a very brief one. Two days at most were all that Effie could spare from home and school. But a great deal may be said and enjoyed in two days.
“How tall you have grown, Christie!” was Effie’s first exclamation, when she had let her sister go. “But you are not very strong yet, I am afraid; you are very slender, and you have no colour, child.”
“I am very well, Effie. You know I was always a ‘white-faced thing,’ as Aunt Elsie used to say. But you— John was right. You are bonnier than ever.”
Effie laughed a little, but she looked grave enough in a minute.
“Are you lame still, Christie? I thought you were better of that.”
“Oh, it is nothing, Effie. It is not the old lameness that used to trouble me. I fell on the stairs the other day, and hurt my knee a little, that is all. It is almost well now.”
I could never tell of all the happy talk that passed between the sisters during those two days, and if I could it would not interest my readers as it interested them. Indeed, I dare say some of it would seem foolish enough to them. But it was all very pleasant to Christie. Every incident in their home life, everything that had taken place in their neighbourhood since her departure, was fraught with interest to her. She listened with delight to the detailed account of circumstances at which Effie in her letters had only been able to hint; she asked questions innumerable, and praised or blamed with an eagerness that could not have been more intense had all these things been taking place under her eyes.
The sunny side of their home life was presented to Christie, you may be sure. The straits to which they had sometimes been reduced were passed lightly over, while the signs of brighter days, which seemed to be dawning upon them, were made the most of by Effie’s hopeful spirit. The kindness of one friend, and the considerateness of another in the time of trouble, were dwelt on more earnestly than the straits that had proved them. “God had been very good to them,” Effie said many times; and Christie echoed it with thankfulness. Nor is it to be supposed that Effie listened with less interest to all that Christie had to tell, or that she found less cause for gratitude.
At first she had much to say about Miss Gertrude and the little boys, and of her pleasant life since she had been with them. But by little and little Effie led her to speak of her first months in the city, and of her trials and pleasures with the little Lees. She did not need much questioning when she was fairly started. She told of her home-sickness at first, her longings for them all, her struggles with herself, and her vexing thoughts about being dependent upon Aunt Elsie. Of the last she spoke humbly, penitently, as though she expected her sister to chide her for her waywardness.
But Effie had no thought of chiding her. As she went on to tell of Mrs Lee’s illness and of her many cares with the children, she quite unconsciously revealed to her interested listener the history of her own energy and patience—of all that she had done and borne during these long months.
Of Mrs Lee’s kindness she could not speak without tears. Even the story of little Harry’s death did not take Christie’s voice away as did the remembrance of her parting with his mother.
“I am sure she was very sorry to part with me,” she said. “Oh, she had many cares; and sorrows too, I am afraid. And you may think how little she had to comfort her when she said to me that I had been her greatest comfort all the winter. She was very good and kind to me. I loved her dearly. Oh, how I wish I could see her again!”
“You will see her again, I do not doubt,” said Effie, in a low voice. Christie gave her a quick look.
“Yes, I hope so—I believe so.”
After a little while, Effie said:
“If I had known how unhappy you were at first, I think I would have called you home. But I am not sorry that you stayed, now.”
“No; oh, no. I am very glad I came. I think after Annie went away I was worse than I was at first for a little while; but I was very glad afterwards that I did not go with her, very glad.”
“Yes,” said Effie, softly. “You mind you told me something about it in a letter.”
So, shyly enough at first, but growing earnest as she went on, Christie told her about that rainy Sabbath morning when she went to the kirk, where Jesus, through the voice of a stranger, had spoken peace to her soul.
“I couldna see him with my blind eyes from where I sat. I shouldna ken him if I were to see him now. But what a difference he made to me! Yes, I know; it wasna he, it was God’s Holy Spirit; and yet I would like to see him. I wonder will I ken him when we meet in heaven?”
Effie could not find her voice for a moment, and soon Christie went on:
“After that everything was changed. It seemed like coming out of the mist to the top of the hill. Do you mind at home how even I could get a glimpse of the sea and the far-away mountains, on a fair summer morning? Nothing was so bad after that, and nothing will ever be so bad any more. I don’t think if even the old times were to come back I should ever be such a vexation to you again, Effie.”
“Would you like to go home with me, Christie?” said Effie. Christie looked up eagerly.
“Yes; for some things very much, if you thought best. I am to go in the summer, at any rate. Would you like me to go now, Effie?”
“It is not what I would like that we must think about. If I had had my way, you would never have left home. Not that I am sorry for it now, far from it; and though I would like to take you with me—indeed, I came with no other thought—yet, as there is as good a reason for your staying as there ever was for your coming, and far better, now that you are contented, dear, I am not sure that I should be doing right to take you away before summer. They would miss you here, Christie.”
“Yes,” said Christie, with a sigh, “I dare say they would. But I must go home when summer comes, Effie. Why, it is more than a year and a half since I have seen any of them but Annie and you.”
“Yes,” said Effie, thoughtfully. She was saying to herself that for many reasons it was better for Christie to stay where she was, for a time at least. She had kept the sunny side of their home life in Christie’s view since she had been there. But it had another side. She saw very plainly that Christie was more comfortably situated in many ways than she could possibly be at home, to say nothing of the loss of the help she could give them, and the increase of expense which another would make in their straitened household.
Yet there was something in Christie’s voice that made her heart ache at the sad necessity.
“I don’t believe it will grieve you more to stay than it will grieve me to go home without you,” she said, at last. “I have been trying to persuade myself ever since I came here that I had better take you home with me. But I am afraid I ought to deny myself the happiness.”
It was not easy to say this, as was plain enough from the tears that fell on Christie’s head as it sank down on her sister’s breast. Christie had rarely seen Effie cry. Even at the sad time of their father’s death, Effie’s tears had fallen silently and unseen, and she was strangely affected by the sight of them now.
“Effie,” she said, eagerly, “I am quite content to stay. And I must tell you now—though I didna mean to do so at first, for fear something might happen to hinder it—Mrs Seaton said one day, if Claude still grew better, she might perhaps send him with me for a change of air, and then I should be at home and still have my wages to help. Wouldna that be nice? And I think it is worth a great deal that Mrs Seaton should think of trusting him with me so far-away. But he is better, and I have learned what to do for him; and he is such a little child we need make no difference for him at home. Would you like it, Effie?”
Yes, Effie would have liked anything that could bring such a glow to her sister’s face; and she entered into a discussion of ways and means with as much earnestness as Christie herself, and they soon grew quite excited over their plans. Indeed, all the rest of the visit was passed cheerfully. Mrs Seaton, after seeing and talking with Effie, confirmed the plan about sending Claude with Christie in the summer, provided it would be agreeable to them all.
“He has become so attached to her, I hardly know how he could do without her now,” said Mrs Seaton. “And I suppose nothing would make Christie willing to forego her visit at home when summer comes.”
To tell the truth, Mrs Seaton was greatly surprised and pleased with the sister of her little nurse. She knew, of course, that Christie had been what her country-people called “well brought up,” and she had gathered from some of Gertrude’s sayings that the family must have seen better days. But she was not prepared to find in the elder sister that Christie had mentioned, sometimes even in her presence, a person at all like Effie.
“She had quite the appearance of a gentlewoman,” said Mrs Seaton. “She was perfectly self-possessed, yet simple and modest. I assure you I was quite struck with her.”
The brief visit came to an end all too quickly. The hope of a pleasant meeting in summer made the parting comparatively easy, and helped Christie to feel quite contented when she found herself alone. She was in danger sometimes of falling into her old despondent feelings, but she knew her weakness and watched against it, and made the most of the few pleasures that fell to her lot.
“I won’t begin and count the weeks yet,” she said to herself. “That would make the time seem longer. I will just wait, and be cheerful and hopeful, as Effie bade me; and surely I have good cause to be cheerful. I only wish I were a little stronger.”
The winter seemed to take its leave slowly and unwillingly that year, but it went at last. First the brown sides of the mountains showed themselves, and then the fields grew bare, and here and there the water began to make channels for itself down the slopes to the low places. By and by the gravel walks and borders of the garden appeared; and as the days grew long, the sunshine came pleasantly in through the bare boughs of the trees to chequer the nursery floor.
The month of March seemed long; there were many bleak days in it. But it passed, as did the first weeks of April. The fields grew warm and green, and over the numberless budding things in the fields and garden Christie watched with intense delight. The air became mild and balmy, and then they could pass hour after hour in the garden, as they used to do when she first came.
But Christie did not grow strong, though often during the last part of the winter she had said to herself that all she needed to make her well again was the fresh air and the spring sunshine. Her old lameness came, or else she suffered from a new cause, more hopeless and harder to bear. The time came when a journey to or from the upper nursery was a wearisome matter to her. Wakeful nights and languid days became frequent. It was with great difficulty sometimes that she dragged herself through the duties of the weary day.
She did not complain of illness. She hoped every day that the worst was over, and that she would be as well as usual again. Mrs Seaton lightened her duties in various ways. Martha, the nurse in the lower nursery, was very kind and considerate too, and did what she could to save her from exertion. But no one thought her ill; she did not think herself so. It was the pain in her knee, making her nights so sleepless and wearisome, that was taking her strength away, she thought; if she could only rest as she used to do, she would soon be well. So for a few days she struggled on.
But the time came when she felt that it would be vain to struggle longer. After a night of pain and sleeplessness she rose, resolved to tell Mrs Seaton that she feared she must go home. She was weak and worn-out, and she could not manage to say what she had to say without a flood of tears, which greatly surprised her mistress. She soothed her very kindly, however, and when she was quiet again, she said—
“Are you so ill, Christie? Are you quite sure that you are not a little home-sick with it, too? I do not wonder that you want to see that kind, good sister of yours, but if you will have patience for a week or two, I will send Claude with you.”
But Christie shook her head. “I am not at all home-sick,” she said. “And I don’t think I am very ill either; but the pain in my knee is sometimes very bad. It grows worse when I walk about, and then I cannot sleep. I am afraid I must go home and rest awhile.”
“Is it so very bad?” said Mrs Seaton, gravely. “Well, the doctor must see it. You shall go to him this very afternoon—or we may as well have him here. If he thinks there is anything serious the matter, something must be done for it, whether you go home or not.
Don’t be anxious about it. I dare say you will be as well as ever in a day or two.”
But the doctor looked grave when he examined it, and asked some questions about it, and the fall on the stairs, which seemed to have brought on the trouble. To Christie he said nothing, but his grave looks did not pass away when she left the room.
“She must go home, then, I am afraid,” said Mrs Seaton. “I am very sorry to lose her. I don’t know what Claude will do without her.”
The doctor looked grave.
“Where is her home? Far-away in the country, is it not? It will never do to let her go away there. She must go to the hospital.”
“The hospital!” exclaimed Mrs Seaton. “Is it so very serious?”
“It may become very serious unless it is attended to. No time ought to be lost. Could she go to-day, or to-morrow morning?”
Mrs Seaton looked very troubled.
“Must she go? She was brought up in the country. It seems necessary she should have fresh air. I am afraid her health would suffer from confinement. Could she not remain here? Of course, if she needs advice she must not think of going home. But could she not stay here?”
“It is very kind in you to think of such a thing, but I am afraid she will need more attention than she could possibly get at this distance from town. She will be very comfortable there. Indeed, it seems to me to be her only chance of a speedy recovery.”
“But it seems unkind to send her out of the house, now that she is ill. I can’t bear to do it,” said Mrs Seaton.
“Not at all, my dear madam. It is done every day; and very well it is that there is a place where such people can be received when they are ill.”
“But Christie is very unlike a common servant. She is such a gentle, faithful little thing; the children are so fond of her too.”
“No one knows her good qualities better than I do, after what I saw of her last winter. But really it is the very best thing that could happen to her in the circumstances. Shall I tell her? Perhaps it would be as well.”
Christie was greatly startled when they told her she must go to the hospital. Her first thought was that she could not go—that she must get home to Effie and the rest before she should grow worse. But a few words from the doctor put an end to any such plan. A little care and attention now would make her quite well again; whereas if she were to go home out of the reach of surgical skill, she might have a long and tedious season of suffering—if, indeed, she ever fully recovered. She must never think of going home now. She must not even think of waiting till she heard from her sister. That could do no possible good, and every day’s delay would only make matters worse.
He spoke very kindly to her.
“You must not let the idea of the hospital frighten you, as though one ought to be very ill indeed before they go there. It is a very comfortable place, I can tell you. I only wish I could get some of my other patients there. They would stand a far better chance of recovery than they can do with the self-indulgence and indifferent nursing that is permitted at home. You will be very well there; and if you have to look forward to some suffering, I am quite sure you have patience and courage to bear it well.”
Courage and patience! Poor little Christie! The words seemed to mock her as she went about the preparations for her departure. Her heart lay as heavy as lead in her bosom. She seemed like one stunned by a heavy blow. It destroyed the pain of parting with the little boys, however. She left them quietly, without a tear, even though poor little Claude clung to her, weeping and struggling to the very last. But her face was very pale, and her hands trembled as she unclasped his arms from her neck, and hurried away, saying to herself “Shall I ever see his face any more?”