Chapter Twelve.
Sisters in Christ.
Christie found, on reaching home, that Mr Lee had returned, and when John called in the morning she was able to tell him it was decided that the family should go to the sea-side for a month.
“And considering all things, John, I am glad that Mrs Lee wants me to go too. I shall have time for a long visit at home when I come back again, before summer is over. The sea air will make me strong. You know we lived near the sea at home. And I should like to take a pair of red cheeks home to Glengarry.”
John was not altogether satisfied with her cheerful words; but there seemed nothing better for any of them but to make the best of it.
“It might be far worse for you, my lassie,” he said, cheerfully. “I would have liked to take you home with me to Glengarry, for your sake and theirs. But if you’ll promise not to let the look come back that I saw first in your face, I’ll leave you with a good heart, and tell no sad tales to Effie and the rest.”
It was all that she could do, even now, to keep a bright face, but she did; and John went away, taking with him the remembrance of it at its very brightest.
The next few days were too busy to give time for regretful thoughts. The children came home, and there was the making of their dresses, and all the necessary preparations for a journey and a lengthened absence from home.
Christie had only time for a hurried letter to Effie, telling her of their plans. She wrote quite cheerfully. She was not strong, and the runnings to and fro of the day often made her too weary to sleep at night. But she was useful, she knew, and Mrs Lee’s gentle kindness proved that she appreciated her efforts to do her duty, and that helped to make her work pleasant and easy. And there was, besides, an excitement in the prospect of a change of scene. Looking forward to a sight of the sea, to feeling the sea-breeze again, to getting away from the heat and dust and confinement of the city, was enough to help her through the day’s toils and troubles. And so she felt and wrote cheerfully, notwithstanding the disappointment that had been so hard to bear.
But a disappointment which she was to feel still more bitterly awaited her. The preparations for departure were nearly-completed. Mrs Lee had so far recovered as to be able to go out, and they looked forward to leaving within a day or two.
One afternoon, while Mrs Lee was superintending the packing that was going on in the nursery, her husband came in. Christie had hardly seen him since little Harry died. He looked grave enough as he came in. He did not speak to her, but in a little while she heard him mention her name, and her heart stood still, as she heard him say:
“You don’t mean to tell me that you are to have no one to take care of the children and wait on you while you are away, but that child? Why, she looks as though she needed to be taken care of herself. I can never think of permitting such a thing.”
Christie felt, rather than saw, the look of entreaty that passed over Mrs Lee’s face as she laid her hand upon her husband’s arm. Meeting Christie’s startled gaze, she said:
“Go down and ask Nelly if the clean things are ready for this other trunk. I will ring when I want you.”
Very quietly Christie obeyed; but before she closed the door, she heard Mr Lee say, in his quick, careless manner:
“It is quite absurd to think of it! A rush of a girl like that!”
Christie’s heart failed. She knew that Mrs Lee seldom found courage to differ from her husband in any point where yielding was possible, and she felt that there was little hope that she would do so now.
She was mistaken, however. Mrs Lee spoke very earnestly to her husband. She told him of all that Christie had been to her and the children through all the long, dreary winter and spring. She told him of the faithful, loving service that had never flagged through weakness and weariness. She assured him of the perfect confidence she placed in her, saying she could not name one, even among her friends, to whom she would so willingly leave the children in case of illness or absence from them. She spoke with tears of little Harry’s love for her, and of Christie’s untiring devotion to him through all his long illness, till her voice lost itself in sobs of sorrow at the memories thus awakened.
Mr Lee did not listen unmoved. All unconsciously, his wife was giving him a glimpse of her own sad experiences during the last few months. Careless as he had grown, he could not listen without a pang, which was half sorrow and half shame.
“My poor Letty!” he said, gently; “you have had a sad time. You have indeed suffered much.”
“Yes,” she said, tearfully; “it has been a sorrowful time. But it is over now. I would not have my loved ones back again even if I could. I am glad for their sakes. Nothing can harm them where they are; and I shall see them again.”
There was a long pause. Then Mr Lee returned to the subject:
“But about your nurse. She really is a very sickly-looking girl. She seems to me like one far gone in a decline. I am very sorry, as you have found her so useful. But I cannot consent that you should go with no more efficient help.”
“But I don’t think she is ill,” said Mrs Lee, doubtfully. “She never complains. She was always delicate-looking. I remember when she first came, I quite hesitated about engaging her, she looked such a fragile little creature. But no one would have thought her otherwise than strong, and efficient too, who saw her through all our troubles.”
“Well, to me she looks frightfully ill just now,” said Mr Lee. “You must at least speak to the doctor about her.”
“She is tired now,” replied Mrs Lee. “She has worn herself out—first with me when I was ill and then with the children. A month at the sea-side will quite revive her.”
Mr Lee was not convinced.
“I feel that I ought to take her. She has wearied herself for us—injured her health, perhaps. I ought to take her, even if we take another servant.”
Mr Lee alluded to the additional expense.
“Besides,” he added, “it is doubtful when we may return. We may not return here at all. We may see England before we see this place again. It would never do for you to take the responsibility of such a girl as that—to say nothing of taking her so far from her home and friends.”
Mrs Lee sighed. She had become accustomed during her married life to frequent and sudden changes. She had learned not to be surprised at them now. Her sigh was for the little graves she must leave behind her, perhaps never more to look on them again. And Christie! Would it be right, in view of these possibilities, to take her away? Knowing them, would she be willing to go? Yes; she felt sure that Christie would not leave them willingly. But she must not think of herself in this matter; she must consider what was best for the poor girl. Would Christie’s friends, would that sister she loved so well, consent to let her go away, uncertain where she was to go or when she was to return? No; even if Christie herself was willing, she must not think of taking her away.
Yet who was to supply her place? Oh, how wearily she sighed! how she shrank from this new trial! She knew that to her husband this would seem a very little thing indeed; and she kept her sad thoughts to herself, as she had done many a time before.
“I don’t know how I can tell her,” she said. “It seems so unkind to change our plans at this late hour. She will be disappointed, I am sure.”
“Oh, I will tell her, if that will do,” said her husband. “I dare say she will be sorry to part from the children and you. You have been very kind to her, I am quite sure. You must make her some little present—a frock, or something; and I’ll tell her our plans.”
“How little you can know about it!” sighed Mrs Lee.
But the matter was considered settled. Nothing more was said about it till the following day, when Mr Lee told his wife he had engaged a woman to go with them—a very suitable person, highly recommended to him by one of his friends.
In the meantime, Christie, having heard no more of the matter, let the remark which had so startled her quite pass out of her mind; and she was in no way prepared for the announcement which Mr Lee made on the second morning, of the change in their arrangements. She was grieved and hurt; so grieved that she could hardly restrain her tears, so hurt that she had the power to do so, and to answer, quietly, “Very well, sir.”
She finished what she was doing in the room and then went out, without another word and without looking towards Mrs Lee.
“You see, she takes it very quietly,” said Mr Lee. “Be sure and make her some little present, as I said before, and it will be all right.”
Mrs Lee sighed.
“It is I who have the most cause for regret,” she said, sadly; “but it is vain to speak of it. You could never, never know.”
Christie went about the house all day very quietly, but no less busily than usual. Her thoughts were by no means pleasant, however.
“It was my vanity that made me think I was of use to her and that she cared for me,” she said to herself, bitterly. “And now I must go home, when I was growing content to stay. If I had only taken John’s advice, and gone with him! Well, I suppose I was too full of my own plans, and this is the way I am to be taught wisdom and humility. I will try to be content. But it will not be very easy, I am afraid.”
Mrs Lee was out a good deal during the day, so that she scarcely saw her till the children had gone to bed. Then she came into the nursery to make some last arrangement of little garments; and in spite of herself, Christie trembled to find herself left alone with her.
“I must speak to her,” she said. “Oh, if I only need not! If I could just say good-bye, and nothing more!”
Mrs Lee sat lost in thought, not seeming to heed her, and Christie stitched away as though there were nothing in the world more important than that little Ned’s buttons should be sewed on firmly. They were finished at last, and the little garment laid with the rest. Instead of coming to her seat again, she stood a little behind Mrs Lee, and said, in a low voice:
“Is it to-morrow, ma’am?”
“Yes; we leave to-morrow, early in the day,” said Mrs Lee.
By a great effort, Christie said, hurriedly:
“About my things, ma’am—my frock and hat? I am afraid I have not enough to pay for them and take me home.”
She had not time to say more. Suddenly turning, Mrs Lee laid her hand on her arm.
“Hush, Christie! It is not a matter of wages between you and me to-night. Money could not pay what I owe to you. We’ll speak of that by and by. Sit down, now, my poor, weary child.”
She placed herself on a low stool at a little distance, and let her head fall on her hand.
“Are you thinking to go home?” asked Mrs Lee.
“I don’t know. I suppose so. I have nowhere else to go.” Christie’s voice was husky, but she was able to command it.
“And did you think I would leave you with nowhere to go?” asked Mrs Lee, gravely. “But would it not be best to go? You are not strong, Christie.”
“Perhaps it would be better to go, but I wish I could get a place for a little while.” And Christie told her of the new misfortune that had befallen them, in the loss of her aunt’s income.
Mrs Lee sighed, and after a pause, said:
“I was at Mrs Seaton’s to-day, near the mountain. There is illness in the family, and a young infant. More help is required in the nursery. You remember the twins, the pretty boys we used to see in the carriage. One of them is ill—never to be better, I fear. The other you will have the care of for the present. They are quite in the country. I think it will be good for you to be there. I think you will like it too.”
Christie thanked her as well as she was able.
“It seems unkind to you that we should change our plans at so late an hour. I should have considered sooner. But I thought more of my children, and of having you still with them, than I did of what would be best for you.”
Christie tried to say how glad she would be to go even now. Mrs Lee shook her head.
“You are not strong, and you are very young. It would be wrong to take you I know not where. It may be a long time before we return here. We may never return.” She was silent for a moment, and then continued:
“Yes, it would be wrong to take you so far from your home to share our uncertain fortunes. If you were but as strong as you are faithful and patient! But it cannot be.”
Christie ceased to struggle with her tears now, but they fell very quietly.
“As for wages,” said Mrs Lee, lifting the lid of Christie’s work-box and dropping in it a little purse, “money could never cancel the debt I owe you. I am content to owe it, Christie. I know you will not grudge your loving service to my darlings.
“And I owe you more than that,” she added, after a pause. “Christie, when the time comes when all these chafings and changes shall be over, when seeing the reason of them we shall bless God for them, we shall be friends then, I humbly hope. And you must tell your sister—no, you could never tell her. I wish I had seen your friend, John Nesbitt, when he was here; but I will write. And Christie, my brave girl, look up. See what I have for you.”
Something glistened in the light, and Christie received into her hand a locket, hung by a black ribbon. Upon being opened, there was a face—a lovely child’s face—“little Harry!”
Yes, it was little Harry’s face, copied from a miniature taken about the time when she first saw him. On the other side, encircled by a ring of the baby’s golden hair, was written, in fair characters, by the mother’s hand:
“To Christie. From the children.”
“And now, Christie,” said Mrs Lee, when the tears that would come at the sight of the picture had been wiped away, “our good-bye to-morrow must be a brief and quiet one. To-night I must say, ‘God bless you.’ Don’t let the world spoil you as you grow older. You won’t, I know. You have a talisman against its power. May God make you a blessing to many, as He has made you a blessing to me! Good-bye, my dear child. If we never meet on earth, I humbly hope we may meet in heaven!”
It was not like a parting between mistress and maid. Mrs Lee kissed her earnestly, while her tears fell on her face, and when Christie said “Good-bye,” she clung to her as she had not clung even to Effie. It was like the farewell of sisters who know that they must meet death before they look on each other’s faces again.
Not one of the many grateful thoughts which filled Christie’s heart had she the power to utter. But they were not needed. After so many months of loving service—after so many nights of anxious watching, shared so gladly for the love she bore to her and her little ones—words could have been of little value.
The “good-bye” in the morning was brief and quiet, as Mrs Lee had wished—so brief that not till the carriage that took them away had disappeared, did Christie realise that they were gone; and the walls of the deserted nursery echoed to many a bitter sob ere she bade farewell to the place where she had passed so many changeful hours.