Chapter Sixteen.
A talk in the garden.
The next day was rainy, and the next, and the next. There was not a glimpse of sunshine till Friday, and then it was only a glimpse. There was no such thing as going into the garden, or even into the wide gallery that ran along the ends of the house. The only change that little Claude enjoyed all that time was being daily taken into the drawing-room while the green room was aired, or into the dining-room when his father was at home, a little while before he went to bed. He did not grow worse, however. He seemed quite contented with Christie, and fretted less when Clement left him than he used to do.
He was growing very fond of his nurse. She was gentle and patient with him, never sparing herself when he needed to be amused. But her firmness was equal to her gentleness. She never suffered herself to be persuaded to indulge him in anything that had been forbidden by the doctor; and she was faithful to the letter in obeying all his directions. The little boy soon learned to yield to her in all things, and the fretful violence that used to excite fever and exhaust his strength seldom appeared now. The green room was Christie’s acknowledged domain. The “masterful” Clement was taught that he was only admitted there on condition of good behaviour; and really, considering all things, he was very good. He was encouraged to be much in the green room during those rainy days, for his merry ways and pleasant childish talk did his little brother a great deal of good.
As for Miss Gertrude, I am sorry to say she did not recover her good-humour so soon as she ought to have done. She did not resent what she called Christie’s reproof about the book half so much as she did her slowness in responding to her offered sympathy about the letter. She fancied that the little nurse ought to have been very much flattered by the interest she had tried to show in her affairs, and was displeased at the silence with which her advances had been received.
Poor Christie had offended very unconsciously. With her mind full of her letter and all the associations it had awakened, she had been quite unmindful of Miss Gertrude and her attempts to make up the little falling-out of the morning. She only began to realise that the young lady must have been offended, when the days passed over with only a brief visit to Claude. Even then she believed that her vexation rose from what had passed about the book.
But Miss Gertrude was very much out of sorts with herself too. If it had not been a rainy day, she would have availed herself of her Aunt Barbara’s invitation to spend the day with her. But a rainy day at Aunt Barbara’s was not to be thought of. She took a long time to write a short letter to Mrs Seaton, in Scotland. Then she took a fit of practising her music, which, she said to herself, she had sadly neglected of late. Then she read a little. Then she went into the kitchen and superintended the making of a pudding after a new recipe which some one had given to her.
Then she dressed for dinner. But the time is very long from nine in the morning till six at night, when it is rainy without and gloomy within. It wanted full an hour of the usual time for her father’s return when she was quite ready to receive him. She wandered into the dining-room. There were no signs of the dinner-table being laid. She wandered into the drawing-room, and passed her fingers over the keys of the piano once or twice. But she could not settle to steady playing, or, indeed, to anything else.
“I wonder what has become of Master Clement all this time? It is time Martha was in the dining-room. I will go and see.”
She went into the nursery; but it was deserted. She called, but received no answer. A sound of voices from the green room drew her there, and the door opened on as merry a game as one could wish to see. Claude sat in his usual place in the arm-chair, and scattered on the carpet before him were a number of pictured and lettered blocks which his father had brought home. These Master Clement was examining with much pretended gravity. He was looking for the letter C, which Christie had pointed out to him. Whenever he made a mistake and pointed out the wrong letter, he punished himself by creeping on his hands and knees under Claude’s crib; and whenever Christie’s nod and smile proclaimed that he was right, he vaulted over the crib, with such laughter and grimaces, and such a shaking of his tangled curls over his face, that Claude laughed and clapped his hands from sympathy.
Miss Gertrude leaned over the chair and watched the play.
“How noisy you are, Clement!” she said, at last.
“Yes; but it is nice noise. I’m very good to-day, Tudie.”
“Are you? I am very glad to hear it, and very much surprised too.”
“Are you cross to-day?”
“Why? What makes you ask?”
“Oh, because you haven’t been here.”
“I have been busy writing a letter to your mother.”
“Did you tell her that I am a good boy? I am a very good boy; and so is Claudie.”
A leap and a grimace more astonishing than any he had yet accomplished sent Claude into fits of laughter.
“I declare,” said Miss Gertrude, looking down upon him, “I don’t believe your mother would know you if she were to see you now! Why, there is quite a colour in his lips. He really seems better, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, and he has been very good and easily amused all day, though he has not been able to go out.”
There was silence for a time. Both girls stood watching the game that was going on. But soon Christie said:
“If you please, Miss Gertrude, will you show me that stitch again? I have quite lost it.”
“Yes,” said Miss Gertrude; “I will show you. It is quite easy.”
“Yes, I dare say it is. I am afraid I am very dull at learning it.”
She was watching the expert fingers of Miss Gertrude admiringly. It was a piece of work she had commenced long before, but getting tired of it, she had offered to teach Christie, who was to finish it.
“It is very pretty,” said Christie, “and quite easy, when one knows the way.”
“Yes, it is quite easy,” said Miss Gertrude. But her manner was quite different from what it had been at the last lesson.
“She is not going to be vexed with me, if I can help it,” said Christie to herself; and in a little while she said, again:
“Miss Gertrude, have you any objection to my copying this pattern out of your book, to send to Effie? I am going to write to her. She is very quick at such work.”
“Certainly not; no objection at all. You can copy it if you like—if you think your sister can make anything of it.” Then, a little ashamed of her ungracious manner, she added, “I will copy it for you—and another, a much prettier one. When shall you send your letter away?”
“Oh, I am very much obliged! I write so slowly that there is no haste about it. I shall not have my letter ready till Friday.”
The next day Miss Gertrude made herself very busy with her practising, and with a magazine that Mr Sherwood had brought home. The day following she spent with her aunt, who sent for her in the morning. Thursday, she was as tired of her dignity as she was of the rain, and came into the green room with a smiling face, and a nice book in her hand. Christie received her exactly as she would have done had there been no interruption of their intercourse. She did not for a moment think of resenting Miss Gertrude’s coolness. She had been busy every moment of her spare time during these few days, writing to her sister, and she had missed her society far less than it would have pleased the young lady to know. But she was very glad to see her back again, and to hear her declare, as she seated herself in the arm-chair, that after all the green room was the very pleasantest in the house. So, with no more words about it, they fell into their old, pleasant ways again.
Mrs Seaton’s return made less difference in their manner of life than they supposed it would. She seemed to Christie a very different person from the pale, anxious invalid that went away so unwillingly; and indeed she was. Her health and spirits were quite restored. Instead of falling back into the retired mode of life that had become habitual to her since the illness of her little boy, she went into society, as she had done before; and as her circle of friends was large, she had very little time to devote to her children, and Christie continued to have almost as much care of Claude as she had had during his mother’s absence.
There was one change which at first seemed anything but a pleasant one; they left the pretty green room for a smaller one in a higher story. At first it seemed a dull, dismal place, but Christie learned to love it very much before she left it.
Miss Gertrude’s lessons commenced again soon after the return of Mrs Seaton, but there was nothing more said of her going to school, at least for the present. She was not old enough to go much into society, and she had plenty of time to devote to the readings in the upper nursery, as Christie’s new room was called. Her interest in these readings was not uniform. Sometimes for several days at a time her visits were few and brief; but on the whole, she enjoyed them very much, and did not neglect them very long.
The balconied window of the green room was not the only one at which the locust-tree made pleasant music. It shaded also one of the library windows. The library had become so much the resort of Mr Sherwood that it almost came to be considered as his room. He spent much of his time in it undisturbed. So it happened one day, when he was not at all busy, he heard the sound of voices beneath, and looking out, discovered that the nursery party had placed themselves on the rustic seat that always stood there. The September wind had scattered many of the long, slender leaves of the locust; but they had come there rather to enjoy the sunshine than the shade. He could see them quite plainly—Claude sitting on his cushion, Clement running here and there about the lawn, Miss Gertrude, as usual, with her book, and Christie with her work. He could not hear what they said, except a word now and then from the children’s shrill voices. Miss Gertrude pretended to read, but evidently the reading did not prosper; and by and by the book was laid aside, and in the conversation that followed the girls seemed to take an equal part. Mr Sherwood was quite astonished to find himself wishing that he could hear what they were saying; but he could not, except when Miss Gertrude’s voice was raised in warning or in reproof, as Master Clement pursued his own pleasure in a distant part of the garden.
By and by the sound of wheels was heard in the garden, and Miss Gertrude rose quickly.
“Oh, here come visitors!” she exclaimed. Her face was turned towards the window, and he heard every word plainly. “Let us go to the cedar walk. I don’t want to go in; and if they don’t see me they will never think of me. Come, Christie.”
She lifted Claude from his cushion and ran away with him, leaving Christie to follow with the shawls and other things. The book was left behind on the bench, and when the visitors were safe in the house, Mr Sherwood could not resist the desire he felt to go down to see what it was. As he passed the drawing-room door, Mrs Seaton looked out.
“If you are going into the garden, Charles, and should see Miss Gertrude, tell her Mrs Jordan is here, and has asked for her.”
“I dare say she won’t thank me for the message,” he said to himself, as he picked up the book and took his way to the cedar walk. He smiled to himself as he turned over the leaves.
“You are inquired for,” he said. “Mrs Seaton bade me tell you that Mrs Jordan is in the drawing-room with her daughters, and they have asked for you.”
“Oh, dear me! And I thought I was safe for this time! But I don’t think I will go. They’ll forget all about me in a few minutes.”
“Mrs Seaton wishes you to go, however,” said Mr Sherwood, gravely.
Miss Gertrude shrugged her shoulders. They had more than once differed as to the nature and extent of duty she owed to her step-mother. She said nothing, however, but rose.
“I’m going too,” said Clement. “Tudie, you must take me.”
“Cousin Charles, carry me!” entreated Claude.
“No, Clement; you are not to come unless you are sent for. And I’ll come back directly.”
Mr Sherwood took one turn in the garden, and came back to the cedar walk in time to hear the end of Christie’s story:
“And so, when the blind man heard the noise of so many people passing by, he wondered. And they told him that Jesus was passing by, and that all the people were following Him. And he asked, ‘Is it Jesus, who healed the ruler’s little daughter?’ Then he began to call out, as loud as he was able, ‘Jesus, Jesus, Thou Son of David, have mercy on me!’ And all the people told him to be still, and not make such a noise. But he thought, ‘Perhaps Jesus will never come this way again!’ so he cried out all the more.
“Well, Jesus heard him, and He stood still and waited till the blind man came up to Him. And then He said, ‘What wilt thou that I should do unto you?’ And the man said, ‘Lord, that mine eyes might be opened.’
“And with a single word that Jesus spoke, his eyes were opened; and he saw the earth, and the sky, and the wondering crowd, and Jesus. Just think how glad he must have been to come out of darkness to see so many beautiful things! And how good and kind Jesus was!”
“Will Jesus ever come again? And could He make me well and strong like Clement? Oh, I wish He would come!”
It was a very entreating little face that was turned towards her as he spoke. She did not answer him at once, but kissed him, and stroked his hair with loving hands.
“Will He ever come again?” he repeated, eagerly.
“My child, He is near us now. He does not forget little children, and the sick and the blind and the sorrowful. And He hears us, just as He heard the blind Bartimeus, and He cares for us and helps us all the same, though He has gone to heaven.”
“And will He make me well again?”
“I don’t know. If it is best He will. And if He does not make you well, He will make you good and patient, and willing to be sick. And you will be happy—more happy than when you were quite strong and well. Don’t you remember how He took the little children up in His arms and blessed them?”
“Yes; and He said, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto Me.’” But the little boy looked very sad as he said it.
Mr Sherwood took another turn in the garden and approached them from the other side. Christie was wrapping Claude in a plaid, and preparing to wheel him round the garden—as quiet and uninteresting a person, to all appearance, as one could fancy a child’s nurse to be.
“Carry me, Cousin Charles,” entreated little Claude. “It is so much nicer than to be drawn in the carriage. Do take me for a little while.”
“We’ll play horses,” said Clement, making his appearance at the moment, “and I’ll drive. Now, up and away!”
Christie sat down to her work again, while they carried on a merry game up and down the cedar walk, with much shouting and laughter from all.
“And now that must do,” said Mr Sherwood, seating himself on the bench that always stood there. “Your horse is very tired, and he must rest before he goes farther. Sit still, Claude. I am not too tired to hold you—only too tired to run any more.”
“He is very warm,” said Christie, laying down her work to come and pin the plaid more closely about him. She did it very gently, and there was no mistaking the loving looks the little boy gave her.
“I found this book as I came out,” said Mr Sherwood. “Was it you or Miss Gertrude who was making it your study?”
“Did I leave it behind me? It was very careless,” said Christie, in some confusion. “We were both reading it; that is, Miss Gertrude read, and I listened.”
“‘Evidences of the Truth of Revealed Religion’,” he read, turning to the title-page. “Which of you is troubled with doubts on that subject?”
“Neither of us, I hope,” said Christie, quietly. She did not quite like the tone in which he spoke.
“But what is the use of reading the book, if you are quite sure already of what it professes to teach?”
“The book was Miss Gertrude’s choice,” said Christie, scarcely knowing what to say.
“Oh, then it is Miss Gertrude whose faith is wavering?”
Christie shook her head.
“One day Miss Gertrude asked me something about which I was quite sure, but I couldn’t tell her why I was so sure; and she found this book, and we thought we would read it.”
“To make you more sure?” said Mr Sherwood, smiling.
“No, sir, not that. Nothing could make me more sure than I am that the Bible and all it teaches is true. But it is well to be able to tell why I am sure.”
“And so you are sure of these things without knowing why you are sure?”
Christie sent a grave, questioning look into his face, and said:
“I think the true knowledge of these things is not learned in books, unless it is in the Bible—and not in that, unless God teaches one.”
After a pause, she added:
“It must be true, you know. What can one trust to, if not to the Word of God? What else is there that does not fail us in the time of need, in some way or other?”
“Not much, indeed,” said Mr Sherwood, gravely.
“Nothing,” repeated Christie, “except the word and promise of God. They never fail—never change—never!”
“Do they never change? What were you telling that boy just now about the blind man that was healed for the asking? But you could not tell Claude that the same power could make him strong and well again, though I am sure you wish it were so.”
“But I am quite sure He could; and He would, if it were best.”
“But why is it not best for him as well as it was for the blind man? He wishes it, and all who love him wish it. And our poor little Claude is not the only one. Think how much suffering there is in the world that might be relieved.”
Christie looked puzzled and anxious for a moment.
“But it is not that He has changed, or that He breaks His promise. I cannot say just what I would, but I don’t think it is quite the same. You know when Christ came into the world it was not merely to do that kind of good to men; it was to save them. And it was necessary that He should prove to them that He was the Son of God, by doing what none but God could do. So He opened blind eyes, and healed their diseases, and raised the dead. And besides, they were to know another way: ‘Surely He hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows!’ They might have known He was the Messiah by that too.” She stopped suddenly, and then added: “It is different now.”
“And so, having done enough to prove all that, He forgets the troubles people in the world have now. Does He?”
“It is not that He forgets, or breaks His promise,” said Christie, hesitatingly, yet earnestly. “He has not promised that His people should never have trouble in the world; quite the contrary. But He promises always to be with them, to support and comfort them through all. And that is as good as though they were to have none—and, indeed, far better.”
She spoke very earnestly. Her face was flushed, and the tears filled her eyes, but she spoke very modestly and humbly too.
“Well, it does not seem that you are troubled with doubts, anyway,” said Mr Sherwood, rising, and placing Claude on the seat she had prepared for him.
“No; I do not doubt. It must be a great unhappiness to think at all about these things and not be sure and quite at rest about them.”
“And what would you say to any one who suffered this great unhappiness?”
The question was gravely, even sadly, asked. There was not the echo of mockery in his tone that had made Christie shrink during the first moments of his being there. She looked up wistfully into the face that was still bending over the child.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I cannot tell—except to
bid him ask, as the blind man asked, ‘Lord, that mine eyes might be opened!’”
He went slowly down the cedar walk, and Christie watched him with wistful eyes. Whether he asked the gift of sight or not, there was one who, after that day, did ask it for him.