Chapter Three.
About the sermon.
The next two days passed pleasantly enough; as the days always did, Christie thought, when Effie was at home. There was plenty to do, more than usual; but the elder sister was strong and willing, and, above all, cheerful, and work seemed play in her hands. Even Aunt Elsie forgot to scold when any little misfortune happened through neglect or carelessness, and Effie’s cheerful “Never mind. It canna be helped now. Let us do the best we can,” came between her and the culprit.
Effie was not so merry as she used sometimes to be, Christie thought; and very grave indeed she looked while discussing ways and means with Aunt Elsie. There was a good deal to be discussed, for the winter was approaching, and the little ones were in need of clothes and other things, and Aunt Elsie did Effie the honour to declare that her judgment on these matters was better worth having than that of all the rest of them put together. Certainly, never were old garments examined and considered with greater attention than was bestowed on the motley pile brought from “the blue chest” for her inspection. No wonder that she looked grave over the rents and holes and threadbare places, sure as she was that, however shabby they had become, they must in some way or other be made to serve for a long time yet. It looked like a hopeless task, the attempt to transform by darning and turning, by patching and eking, the poor remnants of last winter’s frocks and petticoats into garments suitable for home and school wear.
“Surely no children ever grew so fast as ours!” said Effie, after turning her little sister Ellen round and round, in the vain hope of persuading her aunt and herself that the little linsey-woolsey frock was not much too short and scant for the child. “Katie will need to have it, after all. But what can we do for Nellie?” And Effie looked sorely perplexed.
“It’s no’ often that folk look on the growing of bairns as a misfortune,” said Aunt Elsie, echoing her sigh. “If it werena that we want that green tartan for a kilt for wee Willie, we might manage to get Nellie a frock out of that.”
Effie considered deeply.
“Oh, Effie,” whispered Christie, when her aunt’s back was turned, “never mind that heap of trash just now. You promised to come down to the burn-side with me; and it will soon be time for the milking.”
“But I must mind,” said Effie, gravely. “The bairns will need these things before I can get two whole days at home again, and my aunt and the girls have enough to do without this. Duty before pleasure, Christie. See; you can help me by picking away this skirt. We must make the best of things.”
Christie applied herself to the task, but not without many a sigh and many a longing look at the bright sunshine. If Effie once got fairly engaged in planning and patching, there would be no use in thinking of a walk before milking-time.
“Oh, dear!” she said, with a sigh. “I wish there was no such a thing as old clothes in the world!”
“Well, if there were plenty of new ones in it, I wouldna object to your wish being gratified,” said Effie, laughing. “But as there are few likely to come our way for a while, we must do the best we can with the old. We might be worse off, Christie.”
“Do you like to do it?” asked Christie.
“I like to see it when it’s done, at any rate. There is a great deal of pleasure in a patch of that kind,” she said, holding up the sleeve she had been mending. “You would hardly know there was a patch there.”
Christie bent her short-sighted eyes to the work.
“Yes; it’s very nice. I wonder you have the patience. Aunt Elsie might do it, I’m sure.”
Effie looked grave again.
“I am afraid Aunt Elsie won’t do much this winter. Her hands are getting bad again. I must be busy while I am here. Never mind the walk. We’ll get a long walk together if we go to the kirk.”
“Yes, if it doesna rain, or if something doesna happen to hinder us.”
But she looked as though she thought there was nothing so pleasant in store for her as a long walk with Effie; and she worked away at the faded little garment with many a sigh.
Sunday came, and, in spite of Christie’s forebodings, the day rose bright and beautiful. The kirk which the Redferns attended lay three long miles from the farm. The distance and the increasing shabbiness of little garments often kept the children at home, and Christie, too, had to stay and share their tasks. They had no conveyance of their own, and though the others might be none the worse for a little exposure to rain or wind, her aunt would never permit Christie to run the risk of getting wet or over-tired. So it was with a face almost as bright as Effie’s own that she hailed the bright sunshine and the cloudless sky. For Sunday was not always a pleasant day for her at home. Indeed, it was generally a very wearisome day. It was Aunt Elsie’s desire and intention that it should be well kept. But, beyond giving out a certain number of questions in the catechism, or a psalm or chapter to be learned by the little ones, she did not help them to keep it. It was given as a task, and it was learned and repeated as a task. None of them ever aspired to anything more than to get through the allotted portion “without missing.” There was not much pleasure in it, nor in the readings that generally followed; for though good and valuable books in themselves, they were too often quite beyond the comprehension of the little listeners. A quiet walk in the garden, or in the nearest field, was the utmost that was permitted in the way of amusement; and though sometimes the walk might become a run or a romp, and the childish voices rise higher than the Sunday pitch when there was no one to reprove, it must be confessed that Sunday was the longest day in all the week for the little Redferns.
To none of them all was it longer than to Christie. She did not care to share the stolen pleasures of the rest. Beading was her only resource. Idle books were, on Sundays, and on weekdays too, Aunt Elsie’s peculiar aversion; and, unfortunately, all the books that Christie cared about came under this class, in her estimation. All the enjoyment she could get in reading must be stolen; and between the fear of detection and the consciousness of wrong-doing, the pleasure, such as it was, was generally hardly worth seeking.
So it was with many self-congratulations that she set out with Effie to the kirk. They were alone. Their father had gone earlier to attend the Gaelic service, which he alone of all the family understood, and Annie and Sarah, after the labours of a harvest-week, declared themselves too weary to undertake the walk. It was a very lovely morning. Here and there a yellow birch, or a crimson maple bough, gave token that the dreary autumn was not far-away; but the air was mild and balmy as June, and the bright sunlight made even the rough road and the low-lying stubble-fields look lovely, in Christie’s eyes.
“How quiet and peaceful all things are!” she thought.
The insects were chirping merrily enough, and now and then the voice of a bird was heard, and from the woodland pastures far-away the tinkle of sheep-bells fell pleasantly on the ear. But these sounds in no way jarred on the Sabbath stillness; and as Christie followed her sister along the narrow path that led them by a near way across the fields to the half-mile corner where the road took a sudden turn to the right, a strange feeling of peace stole over her. The burden of vexing and discontented thoughts, that too frequently weighed on her heart, seemed to fall away under the pleasant influence of the sunshine and the quiet, and she drew a long sigh of relief as she said, softly:
“Oh, Effie! such a bonny day!”
“Yes,” said Effie, turning round for a moment, and smiling at her sister’s brightening face. “It seems just such a day as one would choose the Sabbath to be—so bright, yet so peaceful. I am very glad.”
But they could not say much yet; for the path was narrow, and there were stones and rough places, and now and then a little water to be avoided; so they went on quietly till they reached the low stone wall that separated the field from the high-road. The boughs of the old tree that hung over it were looking bare and autumn-like already, but under the flickering shadow they sat down for a while to rest.
“Hark!” said Christie, as the sound of wheels reached them. “That must be the Nesbitts. They never go to the Gaelic service. I dare say they will ask us to ride.” There was an echo of disappointment in her tone; and in a moment she added:
“It is such a bonny day, and the walk would be so pleasant by and by in the cool shade!”
“Yes,” said Effie. “But if they ask us we’ll ride; for six miles is a long walk for you. And it will be nice to ride, too.”
And so it was. The long wagon was drawn by two stout horses. No one was in it but John Nesbitt and his mother; and they were both delighted to offer a seat to the young girls. Christie sat on the front seat with John, who was quite silent, thinking his own thoughts or listening to the quiet talk going on between Effie and his mother; and Christie enjoyed her drive in silence too.
How very pleasant it seemed! They went slowly, for they had plenty of time; and Christie’s eyes wandered over the scene—the sky, the changing trees, the brown fields and the green pastures—with an interest and enjoyment that surprised herself. There was not much to see; but any change was pleasant to the eyes that had rested for weeks on the same familiar objects. Then the unaccustomed and agreeable motion exhilarated without wearying her. And when at last they came in sight of the kirk, Christie could not help wishing that they had farther to go.
The kirk, of itself, was rather an unsightly object than otherwise. Except for the two rows of small windows on each side, it differed little in appearance from the large wooden barns so common in that part of the country. The woods were close behind it; and in the summer-time they were a pleasant sight. On one side lay the graveyard. On days when the sun did not shine, or in the autumn before the snow had come to cover up the long, rank grass, the graveyard was a very dreary place to Christie, and instead of lingering in it she usually went into the kirk, even though the Gaelic service was not over. But to-day she sat down near the door, at Effie’s side, and waited till the people should come out. Mrs Nesbitt had gone into a neighbour’s house, and the two girls were quite alone.
“Effie,” said Christie, “I think the minister must preach better in Gaelic than he does in English. Just look in. Nobody will see you. The folk are no’ thinking about things outside.”
Effie raised herself a little, and bent forward to see. It was a very odd-looking place. The pulpit was placed, not at the end of the house, as is usual in places of worship, but at one side. There was no aisle. The door opened directly into the body of the house, and from the place where they stood could be seen not only the minister, but the many earnest faces that were turned towards him. The lower part of the place was crowded to the threshold, and tier above tier of earnest faces looked down from the gallery. No sound save the voice of the preacher was heard, and on him every eye was fastened. A few of the little ones had gone to sleep, leaning on the shoulders of their elders; but all the rest were listening as though life and death depended on the words he uttered. The minister was speaking rapidly, and, as Effie knew, solemnly, though she could only here and there catch the meaning of his words. Indeed, it must have been easy to speak earnestly when addressing such a multitude of eager listeners, who were hungry for the bread of life.
“I dare say the difference is in the hearers rather than in the preaching,” said Effie, turning away softly.
“But, Effie, many of them are the very same people. I wish I knew what he was saying!”
“I dare say it is easier to speak in Gaelic, for one thing. The folk, at least most of them, like it better, even when they understand English. And it must make a great difference to a minister when he sees people listening like that. I dare say he says the very same things to us in English.”
Christie still stood looking in at the open door.
“It ay minds me of the Day of Judgment,” she said, “when I see the people sitting like that, and when they come thronging out into the kirk-yard and stand about among the graves.”
She shuddered slightly, and came and sat down beside Effie, and did not speak again till the service was over. What a crowd there was then! How the people came pouring out—with faces grave and composed, indeed, but not half so solemn, Christie thought, as they ought to have been! The voices rose to quite a loud hum as they passed from the door. Greetings were interchanged, and arrangements were made for going home. Invitations were given and accepted, and the larger part of the crowd moved slowly away.
The English congregation was comparatively small. The English sermon immediately followed; but, whatever might be the reason, Christie said many times to herself that there was a great difference in the minister’s manner of preaching now. He looked tired. And no wonder. Two long services immediately succeeding each other were enough to tire him. Christie strove to listen and to understand. She did not succeed very well. She enjoyed the singing always, and especially to-day singing out of the Psalms at the end of her own new Bible. But though she tried very hard to make herself think that she enjoyed the sermon too, she failed; and she was not sorry when it was over and she found herself among the crowd in the kirk-yard again. She had still the going home before her.
To her great delight, Effie refused a ride in the Nesbitts’ wagon, in order that some who had walked in the morning might enjoy it. She hoped to have her sister all to herself for a little while. She did not, however. They were joined by several who were going their way; and more than one lengthened their walk and went home the longest way, for the sake of their company. It was not until they found themselves again at the half-mile corner that they were quite alone. Christie sighed as she leaned for a moment on the wall.
“You are tired, dear,” said Effie. “It is well we didna have to walk both ways. Sit and rest a while.”
“I am not very tired,” said Christie; but she sighed again as she sat down.
“Effie, I wish I liked better to go to the kirk.”
“Why, Christie?” said her sister, in surprise. “I thought you liked it very much. You said so in the morning.”
“Yes, I know; I like the walk, and the getting away from home; and I like the singing, and to see the people. But the preaching—others seem to like it so much; but I don’t. I don’t understand half that is said. Do you?”
“I don’t understand always,” said Effie, a little doubtfully.
“And sometimes I canna help thinking about other things—the foolishest things!—stories, and bits of songs; and sometimes I get so sleepy.”
“It’s wrong to think about other things in the kirk,” said Effie, scarcely knowing what to say.
“But I canna help it! Now, to-day I meant to try; and I did. Some things I seemed to understand at the time; but most that he said I didna understand, and I have forgotten it all now. I don’t believe I could tell even the text.”
“Oh, yes, you could,” said Effie. “‘Therefore, being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.’ Don’t you mind?”
“Yes; I mind now,” said Christie, turning to the verse in her new Bible, and reading it, with several that followed. “Do you mind what he said, Effie?”
“Some things. He said a great many very important things.” She paused, and tried to recollect. “He told us what justification meant. Don’t you mind?”
“Yes; but I knew that before, from the catechism.” And she repeated the words.
She paused a moment, considering, as if the words had a meaning she had not thought of before.
“Yes,” said Effie; “and he went on to explain all about it. I canna repeat much of it; but I understood the most of it, I think.”
“I was always waiting to hear something about the peace,” said Christie; “but he didna get to that.”
“No. He told us he had kept us too long on the first part of the subject. He’ll give us the rest next Sabbath.”
Christie sighed. The chances were very much against her hearing what was to be said next Sabbath. In a moment she repeated, musingly:
“‘Pardoneth all our sins; accepteth us as righteous.’ I never thought about that before. ‘The righteousness of Christ imputed to us.’ What is ‘imputed,’ Effie?”
“It means put to our credit, as if it were our own,” said Effie. “I have read that somewhere.”
“Do you understand all the catechism, Effie?” asked Christie, looking wonderingly into her face. Effie laughed a little, and shook her head.
“I don’t understand it all, as the minister does, but I think I know something about every question. There is so much in the catechism.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” assented Christie. “But it’s a pity that all good books are so dull and so hard to understand.”
“Why, I don’t suppose they are all dull. I am sure they are not,” said Effie, gravely.
“Well, I find them so,” said Christie. “Do you mind the book that Andrew Graham brought to my father—the one, you know, that he said his mother was never weary of reading? And my father liked it too—and my aunt; though I don’t really think she liked it so much. Well, I tried, on two different Sabbaths, to read it. I thought I would try and find out what was wonderful about it. But I couldna. It seemed to me just like all the rest of the books. Did you like it, Effie?”
“I didna read it. It was sent home too soon. But, Christie, you are but a little girl. It’s no’ to be supposed that you could understand all father can, or that you should like all that he likes. And besides,” she added, after a pause, “I suppose God’s people are different from other people. They have something that others have not—a power to understand and enjoy what is hidden from the rest of the world.”
Christie looked at her sister with undisguised astonishment.
“What do you mean, Effie?” she asked.
“I don’t know that I can make it quite clear to you. But don’t you mind how we smiled at wee Willie for wanting to give his bonny picture-book to Mrs Grey’s blind Allie? It was a treasure to him; but to the poor wee blind lassie it was no better than an old copybook would have been. And don’t you mind that David prays: ‘Open Thou mine eyes, that I may behold wondrous things out of Thy law’? That must mean something. I am afraid most of those who read God’s Word fail to see ‘wondrous things’ in it.”
Effie’s eyes grew moist and wistful as they followed the quivering shadows of the leaves overhead; and Christie watched her silently for a while.
“But, Effie,” she said, at last, “there are parts of the Bible that everybody likes to read. And, besides, all the people that go to the kirk and listen as though they took pleasure in it are not God’s people—nor all those who read dull books, either.”
Effie shook her head.
“I suppose they take delight in listening to what the preacher says, just as they would take pleasure in hearing a good address on any subject. But the Word is not food and medicine and comfort to the like of them, as old Mrs Grey says it is to her. And we don’t see them taking God’s Word as their guide and their law in all things, as God’s people do. It is not because they love it that they read and listen to it. There is a great difference.”
“Yes,” said Christie; “I suppose there is.”
But her thoughts had flown far-away before Effie had done speaking. A vague impression, that had come to her mind many times before, was fast taking form: she was asking herself whether Effie was not among those whose eyes had been opened. She was different from what she used to be. Not that she was kinder, or more mindful of the comfort of others, than she remembered her always to have been. But she was different, for all that. Could it be that Effie had become a child of God? Were her sins pardoned? Was she accepted? Had old things passed away, and all things become new to her? Christie could not ask her. She could hardly look at her, in the midst of the new, shy wonder that was rising within her. Yes, there were wonder and pleasure, but there was pain too—more of the latter than of the former. Had a barrier suddenly sprung up between her and the sister she loved best? A sense of being forsaken, left alone, came over her—something like the feeling that had nearly broken her heart when, long ago, they told her that her mother had gone to heaven. A great wave of bitterness passed over her sinking heart. She turned away, that her sister might not see her face.
“Christie,” said Effie, in a minute or two, “I think we ought to go home. There will be some things to do; and if Annie and Sarah went to the Sabbath-class, we should be needed to help.”
It was in Christie’s heart to say that she did not care to go home—she did not care to help—she did not care for anything. But she had no voice to utter such wrong and foolish words. So, still keeping her face turned away, she took her Bible and began to roll it in her handkerchief—when a thought struck her.
“Effie,” she asked, quickly, “do you believe that God hears us when we pray?”
In the face now turned towards her, Effie saw tokens that there was something wrong with her little sister. But, accustomed to her changing moods and frequent petulance, she answered, quietly:
“Surely, Christie, I believe it. The Bible says so.”
“Yes; I ken that,” said Christie, with some impatience in her tone. “The Bible says so, and people believe it in a general way. But is it true? Do you believe it?”
“Surely I believe it,” said Effie, slowly.
She was considering whether it would be best to say anything more to her sister, vexed and unhappy as her voice and manner plainly showed her to be; and while she hesitated, Christie said again, more quietly:
“If God hears prayer, why are most people so miserable?”
“I don’t think most people are miserable,” said Effie, gravely. “I don’t think anybody that trusts in God can be very miserable.”
Christie leaned back again on the stone, from which she had half risen.
“Those who have been pardoned and accepted,” she thought; but aloud she said, “Well, I don’t know: there are some good people that have trouble enough. There’s old Mrs Grey. Wave after wave of trouble has passed over her. I heard the minister say those very words to father about her.”
“But, Christie,” said her sister, gravely, “you should ask Mrs Grey, some time, if she would be willing to lose her trust in God for the sake of having all her trouble taken away. I am quite sure she would not hesitate for a moment. She would smile at the thought of even pausing to choose.”
“But, Effie, that’s not what we are speaking about. I’m sure that Mrs Grey prayed many and many a time that her son John might be spared to his family. Just think of them, so helpless—and their mother dead, and little Allie blind! And the minister prayed for him too, in the kirk, and all the folk, that so useful a life might be spared. But, for all that, he died, Effie.”
“Yes; but, Christie, Mrs Grey never prayed for her son’s life except in submission to God’s will. If his death would be for the glory of God, she prayed to be made submissive to His will, and committed herself and her son’s helpless little ones to God’s keeping.”
Christie looked at her sister with eyes filled with astonishment.
“You don’t mean to say that if Mrs Grey had had her choice she wouldna have had her son spared to her?”
“I mean that if she could have had her choice she would have preferred to leave the matter in God’s hands. She would never have chosen for herself.”
“Christie,” she added, after a pause, “do you mind the time when our Willie wanted father’s knife, and how, rather than vex him, Annie gave it to him? Do you mind all the mischief he did to himself and others? I suppose some of our prayers are as blind and foolish as Willie’s wish was, and that God shows His loving kindness to us rather by denying than by granting our requests.”
“Then what was the use of praying for Mrs Grey’s son, since it was God’s will that he should die? What is the use of anybody’s praying about anything?”
Effie hesitated. There was something in Christie’s manner indicating that it was not alone the mere petulance of the moment that dictated the question.
“I am not wise about these things, Christie,” she said. “I only know this: God has graciously permitted us to bring our troubles to Him. He has said, ‘Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find.’ He has said, ‘He that asketh receiveth, and he that seeketh findeth.’ And in the Psalms, ‘Call upon Me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify Me.’ We need not vex ourselves, surely, about how it is all to happen. God’s word is enough.”
“But then, Effie, there are prayers that God doesna hear.”
“There are many things that God does not give us when we ask Him; but, Christie, God does hear the prayers of His people. Yes, and He answers them too—though not always in the way that they wish or expect, yet always in the best way for them. Of this they may be sure. If He does not give them just what they ask for, He will give them something better, and make them willing to be without the desired good. There is nothing in the whole Bible more clearly told than that God hears the prayers of His people. We need never, never doubt that.”
But Christie did not look satisfied.
“‘His people,’” she murmured, “but no others.”
Effie looked perplexed.
“I am not wise in these matters, as I have just told you,” she said, gravely. “Until lately I havena thought much about them. But I think that people sometimes vex themselves in vain. It is to the thirsty who are seeking water that God promises to open fountains. It is to the weary and heavy-laden that Christ has promised rest. I am sure that those who feel their need of God’s help need not fear that they will be refused anything—I mean, anything that is good for them.”
“There is a difference, I suppose,” she added, after a pause. “We may ask for many a temporal blessing that might be our ruin if God were to grant it to us; and in love He withholds such, often. But when we ask for spiritual blessing, for the grace of strength to do or of patience to bear His will, if we ask for guidance, for wisdom to direct us, we need not fear that we shall be denied. And, having these, other things don’t matter so much, to God’s people.”
“‘To God’s people,’” repeated Christie to herself again. “Well, I am not one of them. It’s nothing that can do me any good.”
She did not answer her sister, but rose up slowly, saying it was time to go. So she climbed over the low stone wall, and walked on in silence. Effie followed quietly. Not a word was spoken till they reached the bend of the brook over which hung the birch-tree. Past this, her favourite resting-place, Christie rarely went without lingering. She would not have paused to-night, however, had not Effie, who had fallen a little behind by this time, called her.
“Oh, Christie! look at the clouds! Did you ever see anything so beautiful? How beautiful!” she repeated, as she came and stood beside her. “It was a long time before I could become used to the sun’s sinking down in that low, far-away place. I missed the hills that used to hide him from us at home. How well I remember the sunsets then, and the long, quiet gloamings!”
“Home” was over the sea, and “then” was the time when a mother’s voice and smile mingled with all other pleasant things; and no wonder that Effie sighed, as she stood watching the changing hues near the low horizon. The “home” and “then” were the last drops added to Christie’s cup of sad memories; and the overflow could no longer be stayed. She kept her face turned away from her sister, but could not hide the struggle within, and at Effie’s very first word her sobs broke forth.
“What is the matter, Christie? There must be something you have not told me about. You are weary: that is it. Sit down here again, and rest. We need not hurry home, after all.”
Christie sank down, struggling with her tears.
“It’s nothing, Effie,” she said, at last. “I’m sure I didna mean to vex you with my crying; but I canna help it. There is nothing the matter with me more than usual. Never mind me, Effie.”
“Well, sit still a little,” said Effie, soothingly. “You are tired, I do believe.”
“Yes,” said Christie, recovering herself with a great effort. “It’s partly that, I dare say; and—” She stopped, not being further sure of her voice.
Effie said nothing, but gently stroked her hair with her hand. The gentle touch was more than Christie could bear, at the moment.
“Effie, don’t!” she cried, vainly struggling to repress another gush of tears. In a little while she grew quiet, and said, “I know I’m very foolish, Effie; but I canna help it.”
“Never mind,” said Effie, cheerfully; for she knew by the sound of her voice that her tears were over for this time. “A little shower sometimes clears the sky; and now the sun will shine again.”
She stooped down, and dipping her own handkerchief in the brook, gave it to her sister to bathe her hot cheeks; and soon she asked, gravely:
“What is it, Christie?”
“It’s nothing,” said Christie, eagerly. “Nothing more than usual. I’m tired, that’s all,—and you are going away,—and it will be just the same thing every day till you come back,—going to bed tired, and getting up tired, and doing the same thing over and over again to very little purpose. I’m sure I canna see the good of it all.”
Effie could not but smile at her words and manner.
“Well, I suppose that will be the way with every one, mostly. I’m sure it will be the way with me. Except the getting up tired,” she added, laughing. “I’m glad to say I don’t very often do that. I’m afraid my life is not to much purpose either, though I do wish it to be useful,” she continued, more gravely.
“Oh, well, it’s very different with you!” said Christie, in a tone that her sister never liked to hear.
She did not reply for a moment. Then she said:
“It will be easier for you now that the harvest is over. Annie and Sarah will be in the house, and you will have less to do. And, besides, they will make it more cheerful.”
Christie made a movement of impatience.
“You are like Aunt Elsie. You think that I like to be idle and don’t wish to do my share. At any rate, the girls being in the house will make little difference to me. I shall have to be doing something all the time—little things that don’t come to anything. Well, I suppose there is no help for it. It will be all the same in the end.”
Poor Christie! She had a feeling all the time that she was very cross and unreasonable, and she was as vexed as possible with herself for spoiling this last precious half-hour with Effie by her murmurs and complaints. She had not meant it. She was sorry they had waited by the brook. She knew it was for her sake that Effie had proposed to sit down in her favourite resting-place; but before she had well uttered the last words she was wishing with all her heart that they had hurried on.
Effie looked troubled. Christie felt rather than saw it; for her face was turned quite away, and she was gathering up and casting from her broken bits of branches and withered leaves, and watching them as they were borne away by the waters of the brook. Christie would have given much to know whether she was thinking of her foolish words, or of something else.
“I suppose she thinks it’s of no use to heed what I say. And now I have spoiled all the pleasure of thinking about to-day.”
Soon she asked, in a voice which had quite lost the tone of peevishness:
“When will you come home again, Effie?”
Effie turned towards her immediately.
“I don’t know. I’m not quite sure, yet. But, Christie, I canna bear to hear you speak in that way—as though you saw no good in anything. Did you ever think how much worse it might be with you and with us all?”
In her heart, Christie was saying she did not think things could be much worse, as far as she was concerned; but she only looked at her sister, without speaking.
“For, after all,” continued Effie, “we are very well off with food and shelter, and are all at home together. You are not very strong, it is true, and you have much to do and Aunt Elsie is not always considerate; or, rather, she has not always a pleasant way of showing her considerateness. She’s a little sharp sometimes, I know. But she suffers more than she acknowledges, and we all ought to bear with her. You have the most to bear, perhaps; but—”
“It’s no’ that, Effie,” interrupted Christie. “I don’t mind having much to do. And I’m sure it never enters into Aunt Elsie’s head that I have anything to bear from her. She thinks she has plenty to bear, from me and from us all. I wouldna care if it came to anything. I could bear great trials, I know, and do great things; but this continual worry and vexation about nothing—it never ends. Every day it is just to begin over again. And what does it all amount to when the year’s over?”
“Hush, Christie,” said her sister. “The time may come when the remembrance of these words will be painful to you. The only way we can prove that we would bear great trials well is by bearing little trials well. We don’t know how soon great trials may come upon us. Every night that I come home, I am thankful to find things just as I left them. We need be in no hurry to have any change.”
Christie was startled.
“What do you mean, Effie? Are you afraid of anything happening?”
“Oh, no,” she said, cheerfully, “I hope not. I dare say we shall do very well. But we must be thankful for the blessings we have, Christie, and hopeful for the future.”
“Folk say father is not a very good farmer. Is that it, Effie?” Christie spoke with hesitation, as though she was not quite sure how her sister would receive her remark. “But we are getting on better now.”
Effie only answered the last part of what she said.
“Yes, we are getting on better. Father says we have raised enough to take us through the year, with something to spare. It’s all we have to depend on—so much has been laid out on the farm; and it must come in slowly. But things will wear out; and the bairns—I wish I could bide at home this winter.”
“Oh, if you only could!” cried Christie, eagerly.
Effie shook her head. “I can do more good to all by being away. And my wages have been raised. I couldna leave just now. Oh, I dare say we shall do very well. But, Christie, you must not fret and be discontented, and think what you do is not worth while. It is the motive that makes the work of any one’s life great or small. It is little matter, in one sense, whether it be teaching children, or washing dishes, or ruling a kingdom, if it is done in the right way and from right principles. I have read, somewhere, that the daily life of a poor unknown child, who, striving against sin, does meekly and cheerfully what is given him to do, may be more acceptable in the sight of God than the suffering of some whom their fellow-men crown as martyrs. If we could only forget ourselves and live for others!” She sighed as she rose to go. “But come, child: we must hurry home now.”
Christie had no words with which to answer her. She rose and followed in silence. “If we could forget ourselves and live for others!” she murmured. That was not her way, surely. Every day, and every hour of the day, it was herself she thought of. Either she was murmuring over her grievances, or pitying herself for them, or she was dreaming vain dreams of a future that should have nothing to vex or annoy. Her life’s work was worth little, indeed, judging it by Effie’s standard. She did all that she did, merely because she could not help it. As to forgetting herself and thinking of others—
But who did so? No one that she knew, unless, perhaps, Effie herself. And Effie had a great many things to make her life pleasant, she thought. Perhaps her father? But then, her father did what he did for his children. All fathers did the same, she supposed. No; she doubted whether any one came near Effie’s idea of what life should be. It would be a very different world indeed if all did so.
They were quite close to the house before Christie got thus far; and a glimpse of her father’s careworn face filled her with something like self-reproach.
“I wish I could do him some good! But what can I do? He has never been the same since mother died. Nobody has been the same since that—except Effie; and she is better and kinder every day. Oh, I wish I could be like her! but it’s of no use wishing;—I can never be like her. Oh, how tired I am!”
She started at the sound of Aunt Elsie’s voice asking, rather sharply, what had kept them so long. She turned away, impatient of the question, and impatient of the cheerful answer with which Effie sought to turn aside her aunt’s displeasure. She was impatient of Annie’s regrets that their long delay had spoiled their supper, and of Sarah’s questions as to who had been at the kirk, and answered them both shortly. She was impatient of the suppressed noise of the little ones, and vexed at her own impatience more than all.
“I dinna think your going to the kirk has done you much good. What ails you, Christie? One would think you had the sins of a nation to answer for, by your face.”
“Whisht, Annie,” interposed Effie. “Christie’s tired, and her head aches, I’m sure. Dinna vex her—poor thing!”
“Well, if she would only say that, and no’ look so glum!” said Annie, laughing, as she set aside the bowl of milk intended for Christie’s supper. In a moment she returned with a cup of tea, and placed it where the bowl had stood. “There!” she said; “that will do your head good, and your temper too, I hope. I’m sure you look as though you needed it.”
Christie would fain have resented both her sister’s kindness and her thoughtless words, by taking no notice of the tea; but Effie interposed again:
“You are very kind, Annie. What a pity you should spoil all by those needless words!”
Annie laughed.
“Nonsense!” she said. “I didna mean to say anything unkind. Christie mustna be so testy. Don’t tell me that you like milk better than tea. Christie will enjoy hers all the better if you take one too.” And she placed it before her.
“Thank you. It’s very nice,” said Effie. “But the milk would have done very well.”
The quick tap of Aunt Elsie’s cane was heard approaching.
“I doubt you are getting away from Sabbath subjects,” said Aunt Elsie. “Haste you with your supper, bairns—your father’s waiting to have worship. Christie, if you are tired, you should go to bed at once.”
For once, Christie did not wait for a second bidding. She was very tired; and long before the usual Sabbath evening’s examination was over, she had forgotten her doubts and fears and vexing thoughts in sleep.