Chapter Seventeen.
The secret of peace.
Gertrude could not find her book. All that Christie could tell her about it was that she had seen it in Mr Sherwood’s hand in the cedar walk, and that he did not leave it when he went away. She looked for it in the library and in the drawing-room, but it was nowhere to be seen. She had a great objection to asking him for it. Mr Sherwood sometimes condescended to jest with the young lady on some subjects about which they did not agree; and she did not like his jests. So time passed on, till the third day.
“I’ll ask him for it at dinner,” she said to herself. “He is never so provoking when father is there.”
But a good opportunity occurred before dinner. Mr Sherwood was standing in the hall, waiting for Mrs Seaton, whom he was to take into town, when Miss Gertrude passed him on her way up-stairs.
“Mr Sherwood,” she said, “you picked up a book in the garden the other day. It was very careless in me to leave it there. Will you give it to me now?”
“I ought to apologise to you for having kept it so long,” he answered, gravely. “I will get it for you this moment.”
Miss Gertrude looked up to see whether there was not a smile upon his face. She had no idea that her new “whim” for serious reading was to be allowed to pass without remark. But his look was quite grave as he turned into the library.
“Do you like this?” he asked, when he came out with the book in his hand.
“I don’t know. I have not read much of it,” she answered, quickly, moving towards him to take the book. He gave it to her without speaking.
A glance at his face induced her to say, “Are you not well to-day, Cousin Charles?”
It was one of Miss Gertrude’s “whims” always to address him formally as “Mr Sherwood”; and in his agreeable surprise at her familiarity, he smiled brightly. But his face grew grave again as he said:
“Yes; I am quite well—only, perhaps, a little more indolent and self-indulgent than usual.”
About this time there came a letter from Effie, in which there was one sentence that cost Christie many a wondering and anxious thought.
“My dear little sister, let your light shine, and who knows but you may be the means of blessing to this household also?”
“Effie doesn’t know,” said Christie to herself. “She thinks I have grown good and wise, but she is much mistaken. I am sure if I did any good to Mrs Lee I don’t know how it happened. And besides, she was ill and in trouble, and had need of the little help and comfort I could give her. But Miss Gertrude! She is the only one I come very near to here; and she is so quick and beautiful and strong—so much above me in every way. Oh, if Effie were to see her, she would never think of my being able to influence her. Everybody admires Miss Gertrude; and I am but a nursemaid, and hardly that.”
And yet the humble little maid did influence Gertrude as the days and months passed on; but Mrs Seaton and her gay friends in the drawing-room were not more unconscious of the influence for good she was exerting over the wayward young lady than was the little maid herself.
Gertrude only vaguely realised that she was beginning to see and estimate things differently from what she used to do—half thinking, as her mother did, that it was because she was growing older and more sensible. She found herself thinking, now and then, that her standard of right was not exactly what it used to be before she had compared opinions with Christie. In her intercourse with her own family and with others also, she often found herself measuring their opinions and actions by Christie’s rule. But she by no means realised that her own opinions and actions were gradually adjusting themselves to the same rule. Yet so it was.
She liked to watch Christie. She was never weary of admiring the patience with which she bore the changing moods of her little charge, when illness made him fretful or exacting. Gertrude saw that she was learning to love the little boy dearly; but she also saw that it was not merely her love for him that made her so faithful in doing her duty to him, nor was it to please the mother and sister or win their confidence, for she was equally faithful in matters that could never come to Mrs Seaton’s knowledge, and Gertrude knew by experience that her pleasure was never suffered to interfere where Claude’s interest or comfort was concerned.
No; Christie lived that useful, patient life from higher motives than these. “She does what is right because it is right,” said Gertrude to herself. She saw her quite cheerful and contented from day to day, doing the same things over and over again, with few pleasures—with none, indeed, unless the hour or two of reading which they managed almost daily to get could be called such.
And yet, by a thousand tokens, Gertrude knew that she would have enjoyed keenly many pleasures that were quite beyond her hopes—leisure, and books, and going to school, and the power to give gifts and confer favours. To be able to live at home, with no heavy cares pressing on the family, would be real happiness for her. All this Gertrude gathered from the conversations they sometimes had, from occasional remarks, and from her intense delight when letters from home came.
And yet she did not repine in the absence of these things. She was happy in the performance of her duties, whether they were easy or not, and enjoyed the few simple pleasures that came in her way.
“It is not because she is stupid, or that she does not know anything else,” said Gertrude to herself. “She enjoys reading and learning as well as I do, and makes a far better use of the chance she has: and yet she lives on from day to day, wearying herself with little Claude, and stitching away, as though she cared for nothing beyond. Wouldn’t she enjoy being rich, and sending things to her family! Why, the delight she had over that common grey plaid that she sent to her aunt was quite absurd—and quite touching too. It cost her two months’ wages at the very least, but she did not seem to think of that. The only thing that marred her happiness at all that day was the want of a few pence that would have enabled her to buy a warm pair of slippers to go with the shawl. She doesn’t seem to think of herself. I wonder why?”
And Gertrude watched her still, thinking her often needlessly particular in the performance of small duties, and losing patience now and then, when these things interfered with her wishes. But the more she watched her daily life the more sure she felt that Christie had some secret of sweet peace which she had not yet found. She knew that her strength and cheerfulness daily renewed came from none of the helps to which one in her circumstances might naturally look. It was not the knowledge that she was valued, nor the feeling that little Claude was beginning to love her dearly, that sustained her; though Gertrude could see that these were pleasant and precious to the little maid. It was not even the thought of home, or Effie’s letters, or the pleasant word they brought of how she was missed and how they wished her with them. It was not the hope of the time when they should all be together again. To these ardent young people this re-union seemed by no means impossible, or even distant. With Gertrude’s help, Christie often built castles in the air, about a farm which was to be the wonder of the country-side, where they were all to live together, and where Gertrude herself was to pass many a pleasant day.
But it was not this, nor all of these, that brought the look of sweet contentment to that pale face, when she thought herself quite unobserved. It was there sometimes when she was wearied. She was not naturally hopeful or cheerful. She had none of that happy self-confidence which makes burdens light and causes difficulties to disappear. The source of her courage and patience was out of herself. Her gentle cheerfulness, flowing evenly through long days and weeks, sprang from some unseen fountain, pure and free and never-failing.
Sometimes it came into the young lady’s mind that Christie’s constant study of her little Bible had something to do with her being so different from any one she had ever known before. But both of them were a little shy about speaking of these things. They talked about the histories, and even about the doctrines, of the Bible. The stories that little Claude so delighted in all came from the Bible; and Christie had no shyness in speaking to him. To these stories, and the simple comments made on them, Gertrude sometimes listened when she seemed to be occupied with far other matters, and she would have liked very much to have heard more on some of the themes of which these conversations gave her only a hint. But Christie seldom talked about herself. It was only by slow degrees that she came to understand the secret of her content.
Coming one night later than usual into the upper nursery, she found Christie sitting with her little Bible in her hand. She shut it as Gertrude sat down beside her, but she did not put it away.
“I suppose it is too late to begin to read anything now?” said Gertrude. “I have been helping Miss Atherton to dress. You should have seen her! Her dress was splendid—too splendid for so small a party, mother thought. I wish I had called you to see her.”
“I wish you had, indeed,” said Christie, with real interest, for she was a great admirer of anything pretty. “I should like to have seen her. She is beautiful always.”
“Yes, but dress makes a difference even in beautiful people. I have seen ladies who looked quite plain at home by daylight, who were thought great beauties by those who only saw them at parties. But Miss Atherton is always beautiful. She will shine to-night.”
Gertrude sat for a little while gazing into the fire.
“Would you like to have gone with her?” asked Christie.
“No, I think not; I am sure not. I was asked, you know, and I dare say mother would not have objected to my going. But I find these parties very stupid.”
“Miss Atherton does not find them stupid, I should think.”
“Miss Atherton! Oh, no! But she is quite different. I dare say I should like them well enough too, if I were quite grown up, and a belle like her. But one like me is only in the way in such a place, unless she sits quiet in a corner. That is all very well for a little time, but it soon becomes stupid enough.”
“But you are not a little girl. You are fifteen,” said Christie.
“Yes, I am too old to be contented with a seat in a corner, so I don’t like parties yet. And I do believe father thinks it is because I am so sensible.”
Christie could not help laughing at the half-grave, half-comic way in which this was spoken.
“It must be very pleasant to be a belle, however,” continued Gertrude, meditatively, “to have all eyes fixed on you in admiration, and to eclipse all the rest of the stars.”
“But that doesn’t often happen, except in books, I fancy,” said Christie.
“Well, I suppose not. It couldn’t happen very often. But it must be delightful when it does happen. Don’t you think so?” she added, as Christie’s face grew grave. “Wouldn’t you like to shine, as Miss Atherton will, at the Youngs’ to-night?”
“You forget I don’t know about these things,” said Christie.
“Nonsense! You can imagine how it would seem. I can imagine how it would seem to be drawn over the snow by reindeer, or to be carried away in a balloon. Now, tell me—wouldn’t you like to be beautiful and rich, and admired by everybody?”
“I can imagine something I would like far better.”
“What, the model farm, and to live at home? Oh, but if you are to wish, you know, you may as well wish for riches and beauty and all the rest at once! You would never stop short at your farm and contentment, if you had your wish.”
Christie shook her head. “I think I would not wish at all.”
“Do you mean that you are so satisfied with your lot that you would not have it different if your wish could change it?” asked Miss Gertrude, in some surprise.
Christie hesitated a moment.
“I mean that I don’t know what is best for me or for those I love, and He who has appointed our lot does; and so all things are best as they are.”
“Do you mean that you would rather be as you are, living away from home, among strangers, poor and not very strong, than to have all that we sometimes talk about, and to be able to be benevolent and live at home with your sisters?”
“Ah, that would be very pleasant; at least, it seems so now. But still it might not be best for us. If it would be best, we should have it so, I am quite sure.”
Gertrude opened her eyes in amazement.
“But I don’t know what you mean by best!” she said, presently.
“Don’t you?” said Christie, smiling a little. “Well, I am not good at explaining things. I don’t mean what is pleasantest just now, but what is really best for us all, now, and—and afterwards.”
“Do you mean to say that you are better off here as Claude’s nurse than you would be if you were to live at home, or go to school, as you were wishing you could the other day? If you had your choice, is that what you would choose?”
“Oh, I don’t speak about a choice. I am content not to choose; at least, almost always I am content. I know it is best for me to be here, or I shouldn’t be here.”
“But, do you know, that seems to me quite absurd. Why, according to that, everybody is just in the right place. No one ought to have any wish to change, even to be better. All the world is just as it ought to be.”
“I can’t tell what is best for all the world and everybody,” said Christie, gravely. “I was only speaking of myself and Effie, and the rest at home.”
“But I suppose what is true for you is true for other people also—for me, for instance! Don’t you think I have anything left to wish for? Do you think I am in the very best place I could be in for my happiness now and always?”
“I don’t know,” said Christie, looking wistfully into her face. “I hope so. I cannot tell.”
“But what makes you so sure in your own case, then, if you can’t tell in mine? I think few people would hesitate as to which of us is most happily placed. What makes you so sure of yourself?”
Christie did not reply for a moment. She was slowly turning over the leaves of her Bible. When at last she stopped, it was to read softly:
“‘For a man’s life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth.’”
And, farther on:
“‘Consider the ravens: for they neither sow nor reap; which neither have storehouse nor barn; and God feedeth them: how much are ye better than the fowls?’
“‘Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.’
“‘If then God so clothe the grass, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, how much more will He clothe you, O ye of little faith!’”
Gertrude had half expected some such answers. She did not speak, but watched her as she continued to turn the leaves. She read again:
“‘And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God.’”
“That is all very well,” she said; “but that is for one as well as another, for me as well as you. And besides, people don’t take all things just as they stand. I am sure all the people I know live as though their life did consist in the abundance of the things they possess.”
“Well, I suppose the promise is not good to them,” said Christie; “but that does not hinder its being good to others.”
“Then one need not trouble one’s self about what is to happen, according to that? One may just rest content and let things take their course?” said Gertrude, incredulously.
“Yes, that is just what one may do, when one is sure of a right to claim the promise.”
“But what do you mean by having a right? And why should one have a right more than another?” asked Gertrude, impatiently. But all the time she was saying to herself that the quiet little maid before her was one of those who might be content.
“I don’t mean that any one has a right to claim the fulfilment of any promise, except the right that God gives. You know the verse says it is to them that love God for whose good all things work together. God’s people, it means—those who love Him, and those whom He loves.”
Looking into her earnest face, it was not easy for Gertrude to answer lightly, but in a little while she said:
“Well, Christians ought to be very happy people according to that.”
“Surely,” said Christie, earnestly, “and so they are.”
“Well, I know some of them who don’t seem very happy. And they strive for riches and greatness, and all that, just as though their happiness depended upon it.”
“But no real child of God does that,” said Christie, eagerly.
“Oh! as to that I can’t say. They call themselves Christians.”
“Well, we can’t always judge people by just seeing them,” said Christie. “There’s many a one who seems to be living just as other folk live, and going the round that other folk go, and all the time he may be really very different. I am not good at speaking about these things, but I know that to a child of God His simple promise is worth more than houses or lands, or anything that this world can give. No; we have nothing to fear. Only we forget and grow desponding.”
The last words were spoken rather to herself than to Miss Gertrude. She sighed; but her face was quite untroubled as she rose, and laying down her Bible, began to arrange the things in the room.
“You always say, ‘child of God,’” said Gertrude, wishing still to prolong the conversation. “Does that mean just a Christian, or does it mean something more?”
“Yes. ‘As many as received Him, to them gave He power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on His name.’ Yes, it means just the same. You see, it seems to bring us very near to Him, speaking of Him as a Father, and of Christ as an Elder Brother. You know a child will never want for anything that a loving father has to give, if it is for his good; and so surely the children of God may well rest content with what He appoints for them. The only wonder is that they are ever otherwise than content.”
Gertrude made no reply, and there was a long silence.
“‘A child of God.’ ‘Content with what He sends them.’ There is something wonderful in it. She is one of them, I dare say; and that is what makes her so different from almost any one I know. I wish I could understand it. It must be worth a great deal to know that one is a child of God. I wish she could tell me more about it.”
But Christie did not seem inclined to say more on any subject that night. She moved here and there in silence, putting things to rights in the room. Gertrude rose at last.
“That is a hint that it is time for me to go,” she said.
Christie laughed.
“Well, yes. You know Mrs Seaton was displeased to find us sitting up the other night when she came home. It is nearly ten.”
“Oh, she won’t be home to-night till the small hours have struck. Miss Atherton will take care of that. There is no fear of her finding us up to-night.”
There was an expression of surprise on Christie’s countenance.
“Oh, I know very well what you mean. That makes no difference, you would say. Well, I suppose we must do what she would wish, the same as if she were here, though I don’t feel the least sleepy. Good-night.”