Chapter Seven.
“Closer than a brother.”
But all the days of that dreary autumn were not so happy. Indeed, there were many times when Christie felt ready to give up in despair. Once it happened that for weeks together the rain kept the little ones in the house, and the only glimpse of the outer world which Christie could get was from the nursery window. For one accustomed to a country life this was no small deprivation, and though she was hardly conscious of the cause, her spirits (never very lively) were ready to sink under it. She became used to the confinement after a while, or rather, as she told Annie, she did not mind it. But the constant attention which the little ones claimed was a great strain on her cheerfulness. From early morning till the hour when the unwilling eyes of the last of them were closed in slumber, she had not a moment’s respite. There was always something to be done, some one to be coaxed or cautioned or cared for.
The little Lees were not naughty children. On the contrary, they were very loving, affectionate little creatures. All of them, except, perhaps, Letty, were easily amused and governed. But, as is the case with all over-indulged children, they were inclined to be exacting when they had the power; and it was no wonder that, among so many of them, Christie sometimes grew weary even to exhaustion, and fancied that her strength and courage were quite spent.
And worse than all, there were times when home-sickness, that could not be resisted or reasoned away, assailed her. Almost always it was at night—in the evenings, now growing so long, when no sound save the gentle breathing of the sleeping children broke the reigning silence. It was not so bad at such times, however, for she could then let her weary head fall, and weep a part of her troubles away. But sometimes in broad daylight, when in her walks with the children she crushed beneath her feet the dead leaves of the trees, while the autumn wind sighed drearily through their bare boughs, a pang of bitter loneliness smote her. Among the crowds she met she was always fancying familiar faces. More than once she sprang forward with a cry to grasp the hand of one who looked on her with the unheeding eyes of a stranger. If at such a time any one had come to her with a message from Effie, saying, “Come home,” she would probably have gone at all hazards—so dreary and lonely her life seemed to her.
It was not so with Annie. She made friends easily. She and Christie went to church; and but few Sabbaths passed before they met many who nodded and smiled to her bright-faced sister. But Christie was shy and quiet, and shrank from the notice of strangers; and up to the very last time that she passed through them, the busy streets of the city seemed a lonely place to her.
Christie never quite forgot the remedy tried for the first time beneath the boughs of the birch-tree by the brook. There were hours when it seemed to her now, as it seemed to her then, a cure for all the ills of life, a help in every time of need. There were times when, having nowhere else to go, she carried her burden to Effie’s chief Friend, and strove to cast it from her at His feet. She did not always succeed. Many a time she lay down in the dark, beside little Harry, altogether uncomforted. It seemed to her that nothing could help her but going home again. But it was only now and then, at rare intervals, that it seemed possible for her to go. Almost always she said to herself, “I canna go home. I must stay a little while, at least.” Sometimes she said it with tears and a sorrowful heart, but almost always she had courage to say it with firmness.
But now she was beginning to feel herself wrong in coming; or, rather, she began to see that her motive in coming was wrong. It was less to help Effie with the little ones, as she was now satisfied, than to escape from dependence on Aunt Elsie. Not that, even in her worst moments, Christie could make herself believe that her aunt did not gladly share the little that she had with her brother’s orphans, or that she would share it less willingly with her than with the others. The unwillingness was on her part. And the root of this unwillingness was pride, and an unforgiving remembrance of what she called her aunt’s harshness to her. Aunt Elsie had been at times more or less hard with all her nieces. But she had been so to Christie in a way different from the rest; and the child was willing to believe that the cause lay less in her waywardness than in her aunt’s unjust partiality. With such feelings permitted, nay, at times willingly indulged, no wonder that she too often failed to find the peace she sought.
But gradually the home-sickness wore away. Daily she became more useful and more valued in the nursery. She felt that Mrs Lee trusted her, and this did much to make her content. She almost always was patient when the children were in their exacting moods, and was always firm in refusing any forbidden pleasure. From her “your mamma would be displeased,” or her “it is not right,” there was no moving her; and of this the children soon became aware. She never assumed authority over them. They would have resented this quickly enough. But if the reward of a story or a merry game before bed-time was forfeited by ill-conduct, it was felt as a severe disappointment. For any disobedience or other naughtiness in the nursery, the refusal of a kiss for good-night was punishment enough. All children are not so easily guided or governed as the little Lees were; and few children are placed so entirely apart from evil influences as they were in those days. They were quick and restless, and full of spirit, but, as I have said, they were affectionate and tractable; and though often, before the last little busybody was safely disposed of for the night, Christie believed her strength and patience to be quite exhausted, her love for them increased day by day.
So the first three months of her absence from home wore away, and the merry Christmas-time drew nigh. Till now, Christie had seen little of the master of the house. He was rarely in for many days together. His business took him here and there through the country; and even when he was in the city he was not much at home. Once or twice he came into the nursery. He seemed fond of his children in a careless, indifferent way; but the children were shy and not very happy in his presence. If Mrs Lee was not happier when he was at home, she was certainly more sad and silent for a few days after he went away, and sighed often when she looked at her children, as though she were burdened with many cares.
About Christmas-time a great change took place in the household. In the course of one of his many journeys Mr Lee met with a serious accident. It was not pronounced serious at the time of its occurrence, but it became so through neglect. It was painful as well as dangerous, and confined him to the house during the greater part of the winter. From this time Christie’s duties became more arduous. Mrs Lee’s time and attention were frequently required by her husband, and the fragile little Ellinor then became the special care of Christie. The nursery, too, was removed to a room in the attic; for Mr Lee at first could not, and at last would not, bear the noise of the children; and Christie’s glimpse of the outer world extended only to roofs and chimneys now. The brief daily airings of the children were taken in a sleigh; and the doctor insisted that their mother should always share them. She was very delicate; and her husband, thoughtless and exacting, failed to perceive that her strength was too much tried. Mrs Greenly was engaged as his sick-nurse; but she could not be on the alert both night and day, and when she failed her place must be supplied by his uncomplaining wife. Night or day it was all the same. She was never sure of an hour’s respite.
So Christie reigned alone in the attic-nursery, and controlled and amused the children, and mended, and managed, and looked cheerful through it all, in a way that excited the admiration and astonishment of Mrs Greenly, and the thankful gratitude of Mrs Lee. How she got through it all she hardly knew. On the days when the baby was her exclusive care, it was bad enough. But by teaching the children to hail the coming of the little one as a mark of their mamma’s great confidence in them, she succeeded in making them share the responsibility with her. The boys would amuse themselves quietly for hours rather than disturb little Ellinor; and Letty (usually the most restless and wayward of them all) never grew weary of humming little songs, and otherwise amusing the baby, as she lay in the cot. So they went on better than might have been expected. But what with the close confinement in the house, and the climbing of two or three long flights of stairs, Christie grew pale and thin, and was many a time very weary.
She had one pleasant hour in the week. At ten on every Sabbath morning she called for her sister, and they went to church together. Not to the church they would have chosen at first. There they had difficulty in finding seats together; so they went elsewhere, with a friend of Annie’s, and after a time they had no desire to change. They rarely saw each other during the week. Annie sometimes came into Christie’s nursery; but the only real pleasure they had together was in the walk to and from church on Sabbath morning.
March was passing away. The snow was nearly gone, but there had been a shower during the night, and the pavements were wet, as Christie set out on her accustomed walk one morning. The wind blew freshly, too, and weary with the work of six days, she shrank from facing it, even for a little while, with her sister, so, at the street by which she usually went to the house where Annie lived, she paused.
“I’ll wait in the church for her to-day,” she said to herself. “I’m tired, and it’s later than usual. She’ll know if I’m not there by half-past ten, and she’ll come down. At any rate, I’m too tired to go up the hill.”
Yes, she was very tired. The fresh air did not brighten and enliven her as it usually did. The warm, moist wind that came in gusts from the south was not invigorating, and she went slowly up the church-steps, glad that her walk was over. There was no one in the church. Even the sexton was not visible; and Christie placed herself in her accustomed seat under the gallery, near the door, glad to rest in the pleasant stillness of the place. How quiet and peaceful it seemed! The sound of the moaning wind seemed to come from far-away, and the stillness within was all the deeper. After the noise and turmoil of six days, the silence was more grateful to her weary sense than the sound of sweetest music would have been; and closing her eyes, she leaned back, not to think, but to rest and be at peace.
Soon the congregation began to assemble, but her repose was too deep to be disturbed by the sound of footsteps or the rustling of garments. She neither stirred nor heard a sound till Annie laid her hand upon her arm. Then she awoke with a start, coming back to a realisation of time and place, with a flutter of confusion and pain.
“What ails you? Have you been sleeping? Are you not well?” whispered Annie, in alarm.
“Oh, yes, I’m well enough. I think I must have been sleeping, though,” said Christie, scarcely able to restrain a laugh at Annie’s astonishment.
“Sleeping! at this time of day, and in the kirk too!” exclaimed Annie.
“Well, never mind,” said Christie, smiling, and holding down her head to hide her confusion. “Did you see David McIntyre? I’m almost sure I saw him in the street.”
“Yes, I saw him. He brought this letter from Effie.”
Christie took it from her.
“Don’t read it now, in the kirk. There’s nothing in it that will not keep. There is a little note for yourself inside. They are all well. Why didna you come up to-day? I have something to tell you.”
Christie listened eagerly.
“I canna tell you now,” said her sister. “See, the people are nearly all in. But I’ll come down to-night, if I can.”
At that moment a hard-featured man, a little in front, turned his sharp eyes towards them, with a look that was intended to warn and reprove; so nothing more was said.
As Annie was walking home with Christie, “I’m thinking of changing my place,” she said.
“Changing!” repeated Christie. “I thought you were quite content.”
“Oh, it’s not that. Mrs Vinton wishes it. Her younger sister is going to be married, it seems, and her mother, who is an invalid—something like Aunt Elsie, I should think—wants some one to be with her always. She lives with a son, somewhere in the far West. Miss Emma—that’s the sister—has been down. She thinks I should suit her mother, and Mrs Vinton is willing to spare me. I think I should like to go, for some things. The wages are higher.”
“But so far-away,” said Christie, in consternation; “and to leave me!”
“Yes, that’s what disturbs me. You mustna stay when I go.”
Christie shook her head. “I suppose there’s the same need of my staying now that there was before,” said she, quietly.
“But Effie was never quite willing that you should come, you know; and besides, your place is too hard for you.”
“Just now it is, perhaps,” interrupted Christie; “but Mr Lee is better, and we’ll soon get into our old way again.”
“But what I want is this,” said Annie; “I want Sarah to come and take my place at Mrs Vinton’s. I have told her about Sarah. And then you could go home and be with Effie.”
“But I never could do what Sarah does at home,” said Christie; “taking care of Aunt Elsie and all. It would be far harder than what I have to do now.”
“But you would be at home, and you would have some one to look after you. I could never think of such a thing as leaving you here alone.”
“But, Annie, Sarah would be alone,” remonstrated Christie.
“Yes, I know; but it’s quite different with Sarah. She’s strong and healthy, and will hold her own with anybody; and besides, I’m sure Effie will never hear of your staying here alone. But there’s time enough to think about it. If I go, I shall spend a week at home first. No; I can’t go in,” said Annie, as they came to Mrs Lee’s door. “I must go home. I shall write to Effie. Now, don’t fret about this, or I shall wish I hadna told you;” for Christie looked very grave indeed.
“We’ll wait and see what Effie thinks,” said she, sadly.
“Well, you have her letter; and I’ll come down to-night, if I can, and we’ll talk it over. But, for any sake, dinna look so glum, as Aunt Elsie would say.”
Christie laughed a little at her sister’s excitement, but it was a very grave face that bent over the baby’s cot that afternoon. The south wind had brought rain, and when night came, the drops dashed drearily against the window-panes. Listening to it, as she sat with the baby in her arms and the others sleeping quietly about her, Christie said to herself, many times, that Annie could never venture out in such a night. Yet she started at every sound, and listened eagerly till it had died away again. Effie’s letter had told her nothing new. They were all well and happy, and the old question was asked, “When is Christie coming home again?” But the letter, and even the little note, more precious still, could not banish from her mind the thought of what Annie had said to her; and it seemed to her that she could not possibly wait for another week to hear more. The baby was restless, its mother was detained down-stairs, and Christie walked about and murmured softly to still the little creature’s cries. But it was all done mechanically, and wearily enough. Through the baby’s cries and her own half-forced song, and through the dreary sounds of the wind and rain, she listened for her sister’s foot upon the stairs. She could not have told why she was so impatient to see her. Annie could tell her no more than she had already told her during their walk from church. But since the possibility of getting home had been suggested, the old feelings had started within her. A sudden rush of home-sickness had come over her, and with it the old unwillingness to go home and be a burden. She could fix her thoughts on nothing else. Even after the baby had fallen into an uneasy slumber, she wandered up and down the room, hushing it in her arms as before.
There was a step on the stairs at last. It was not Annie, however, but Mrs Lee.
“I am afraid the baby has been fretful,” she said, kindly, as she took the child in her arms. “You look tired, Christie.”
“No; I’m not very tired.” But she moved about the room, putting aside little frocks and shoes, keeping her face all the time from the light. She was very much afraid that if Mrs Lee were to speak so gently again her tears must flow; and this must not be if she could possibly help it. In the meantime, Mrs Lee had taken up a book, which lay on a table beside her. It was Christie’s Bible; and when she had finished putting away the children’s clothes worn through the day, and seated herself at a little distance, Mrs Lee said:
“You are fond of reading, Christie?”
Christie had many times asked permission to take a book into the nursery, when the children were asleep, and she answered:
“Yes, ma’am; I like to read, very much.”
“And do you like to read the Bible? Some people seem to take great pleasure in it.”
“Yes; I read it every day. I promised Effie I would.”
Mrs Lee continued to turn over the leaves.
“Whose marks are these on the margin?” she asked.
“I suppose they are Effie’s. John Nesbitt marked one or two for me, when I was staying at his mother’s last summer. The rest are Effie’s.”
Mrs Lee read, “He shall cover thee with His feathers, and under His wings shalt thou trust.”
“That was John’s,” said Christie, quickly. “One day a hawk came very near, and we saw the chickens run to take shelter with their mother; and in the evening John marked that passage, because, he said, it was just the right one for a feeble, frightened, faithless little creature like me. I was not well at the time.”
Christie paused, partly because she thought she had said enough, and partly because it would not have been easy for her to say more just then.
“I don’t think your friend could have known you very well,” said Mrs Lee, smiling. “He would never call you feeble, or frightened, if he knew all you have done, and what a comfort you have been to me, this winter.”
“Oh, he meant that I was not brave and cheerful, like Effie; and I am not.”
“It is pleasant to have these tokens of your friend, any way,” said Mrs Lee, musingly.
“There are other of his marks:—‘Under the shadow of Thy wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast,’—and another about rejoicing under the shadow of His wings.”
It was a troubled, tearful face that Christie laid down on her hands as she said this. Mrs Lee was still turning over the leaves, and took no notice of the sigh that escaped the little nurse.
“You read it to please your sister and your friend, do you? Or do you really love to read it? I have heard of those who find their chief happiness in believing what the Bible teaches. Do you?”
There was a pause, during which Christie slowly raised her face from her hands and turned it towards Mrs Lee. Then she said, with some hesitation:
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t be without the Bible for all the world; and yet I know I don’t find all the comfort in it that some people do. I suppose it is because I am not sure that I am a Christian.”
“A Christian?” repeated Mrs Lee.
“Yes; a child of God,” said Christie, with a sigh. “If I were sure that I am a child of God, then all the promises in His Holy Word would be mine.”
“I suppose you mean if you were always good and never committed any sin?” said Mrs Lee, inquiringly.
“No; not that, exactly. Even God’s people fall into sin sometimes.”
“What do you mean by being a child of God, then? We are all His children in a certain sense, are we not?”
Christie glanced doubtfully at Mrs Lee.
“I mean one who loves God supremely—one who is at peace with God, who has no will but His—one whose sins are forgiven for Jesus Christ’s sake.”
“And you think you are not one of these?” said Mrs Lee.
“I don’t know. Sometimes I hope; but I am afraid not. I am sure I wish to be.”
Mrs Lee looked as though she did not quite understand her; but she said nothing more. She laid down the book and rocked the baby gently on her knee. Her thoughts were not very happy, Christie fancied, if she might judge by her face, which grew grave and sad as she gazed on the child. One of the little boys made a sudden movement. Christie rose to replace the coverlet on him.
“How peacefully they sleep!” said their mother. “Ah me!” she added; “if they could always be as free from care! If I could get but one glimpse into their future! And yet perhaps it is better as it is.”
“It is better to trust than to know, I once heard Effie say.” Christie spoke shyly, and with hesitation, as though she were not quite sure that she should speak at all.
Mrs Lee smiled, and said, kindly:
“I see you are very fond of your sister Effie.”
Christie’s face spoke; but she did not trust her voice.
“I suppose she is the eldest of your family?”
“Yes. She’s twenty-two. Oh, I wish you could see Effie! She is very different from what you would think from seeing me—or Annie, even.”
“How so?” asked Mrs Lee, greatly amused at the eagerness of one usually so quiet and self-restrained.
“Oh, I can hardly tell you. She looks so different—from me, I mean. Annie’s more like her. But it’s not so much her looks. She is so brave and cheerful and strong. She is not afraid. And yet she is gentle, and has patience with us all.”
“Is she one of those you were speaking about just now—a child of God?”
“Yes; she is,” said Christie, gravely. “She doesn’t say much about it; but I do believe it is that which makes the difference. No wonder that she is strong and brave and cheerful always, when she is quite sure that all things will work together for her good.”
Christie spoke the last words rather to herself than to Mrs Lee. The lady listened with much interest, however. She had long ago learned to value her little nurse for her faithfulness and her desire to do right; but this glimpse she was getting of her inner life was something new.
“It’s no wonder I love Effie,” continued Christie, whose heart was opened. “When my mother died, I was sickly, and different from the rest; and she gave me to Effie as her special care. I think I should have died if it hadn’t been for her. Oh, if I could only see her, just for one minute!”
Christie was in danger of forgetting all else for the moment. But she checked herself by a great effort, and said:
“I don’t mean that I am discontented here, or that I would go home if I could. I know it is best I should be here.”
“What do you mean by all things working together for good?” said Mrs Lee, by and by. “I suppose Christians have trials and sorrows as well as others?”
“Oh, yes! I don’t mean that. But a Christian may be sure that even his trials are sent for the best. That is what John Nesbitt said to Effie and me once. He said, if we had a friend of whose love we could be sure, a friend who was wise and powerful and who had promised to bring us safely through our troubles, we should have no cause to fret and despond, though we might not understand all that happened by the way. We might be sure that in the end all would be well.”
“If one could only have such a friend!” said Mrs Lee, with an audible sigh.
“Well, I suppose Jesus Christ is such a friend to those who love Him,” said Christie, softly. “He’s loving and powerful, and He has promised; and He cannot break His promise, we know. If we would but trust Him!”
Mrs Lee said nothing. The look of care that Christie had seen on her face many times since she came, and oftener than ever within the last few weeks, was settling on it now. She leaned her head on her hand, and sighed many times, as she sat gazing on the face of her baby, who had fallen asleep on her knee. Christie took up her book; but she could not help stealing a glance, now and then, at the mother and child.
Thinking of Mrs Lee’s troubles, Christie for a time forgot her own; and it was not so difficult to wait till the next week to see her sister as she supposed it would be. She had to wait longer than that before their arrangements were made. Annie wrote to Effie; but as only a weekly mail reached them, and as even that one might fail, it was some time before they could expect to hear from her. The days passed very slowly. Effie’s letter seemed a long time in coming.
In the meanwhile April came in, and as the days grew longer and milder, Christie’s anxiety to hear grew more intense. It seemed to her that she must get away from the town and run home for a little while. The longing never left her. Her stories to the children were all about the buds that were beginning to show themselves, and the flowers and birds that would be coming soon. She told them how all living creatures were rejoicing in the return of spring, how glad the calves and the young lambs would be to find themselves in the pastures, that were now becoming green. She told them how the icy bands that had bound the little brooks through all the winter-time were broken now by the bright sunshine, and how by this time the water must have reached the hollow at the foot of the birch-tree and covered the turf seat there. She told them how the waters rushed and murmured when they rose so high that the green buds of the birch-tree dipped into them, and how the wind swayed the young willows, till she seemed to hear the sound, and grew faint with her longing to be there.
The letter came at last. Annie was to do as she thought best, Effie said. She could judge what was wisest, and what she would like, better than they could, who were so far-away; but as for Christie, she was to come home. Not to exchange with Sarah, however. Whether one of them would go back, or whether both were to stay at home, was to be decided afterwards; but in the meantime Christie was to come home.
“Think of it!” Effie said; “six long months away! Aunt Elsie, Mrs Nesbitt, old Mrs Grey—everybody said she must come home.”
How the poor girl’s heart leaped to meet the welcome that awaited her! Yes, she must go home, for a little while at least. Mrs Lee was grieved at the prospect of parting with her. Christie was almost vexed with herself that the thought of leaving her and the children should not be more painful to her. But there was too much joy in her heart to leave room for more sorrow.
“I didna think I should be so glad to go,” she said to Annie many times during their last walk from church. Annie laughed.
“You have forgotten Aunt Elsie and all other vexations. Wait till you get home. It won’t be all sunshine there, I can tell you.”
But even the thought of Aunt Elsie had not the power of making Christie anything but glad. She was afraid of nothing, except that something might happen to hinder her going home.
“You foolish child!” said Annie, laughing. “What could happen?”