Chapter Twenty One.
The night grows darker.
But the thing which “might happen,” and at the thought of which Christie shuddered and turned pale, was not what Mr Sherwood supposed it to be. It was not the natural shrinking from death which all must feel when it is first impressed upon the mind not only that it is inevitable, but that it is near. Christie knew that she was very ill. She knew that she was not growing better, but rather worse. Yet it had never entered into her mind that possibly she was to die soon. The dread that was upon her was not the dread of death. I think if she had suddenly been told that she was going to die, the tidings might have startled her, because not anticipated; but believing, as she did, that death could not separate her from her chief treasure, she would not have been afraid. It was of something else that she was thinking, when she said to her kind friend that Effie would be shocked if it came to pass.
She had awakened one day from a momentary slumber into which she had fallen to hear some very terrible words spoken beside her. She thought she had been dreaming till she heard them repeated, and then she opened her eyes to see the kind faces of the attending physician and another looking at her.
“You have been asleep,” said one of them, kindly and Christie thought again she must have been dreaming, for they spoke to her just as usual, praising her patience and bidding her take courage, for she would soon be well again. She must have been dreaming, she said to herself, twenty times that day. Nothing so terrible as the dread that was upon her could possibly be true; and yet the thought came back again and again.
“I am afraid she must lose it,” she thought she heard one of them say.
“Yes; it looks like that now,” as it seemed to her was the reply.
She could not forget the expression; and during the days and nights that followed, the remembrance of the words came back, sometimes as a dream, sometimes as a certainty. Had she been asleep, or was it true that she must be a cripple all her life? Must she henceforth be helpless and dependent, when her help was so much and in so many ways needed? Had her terrible sufferings been all in vain? Were all these restless days and nights only to have this sorrowful ending? How could she ever bear it? How could she ever tell Effie and the rest at home?
Many times in the day, when there was no one near, she determined to ask the doctor, that she might know the worst or have her fears set at rest, but she could not find the courage to do so. She did speak to the nurse, but she knew nothing about the matter, or said she did not, and quite laughed at her fancies, as she called them. But the fancies still lingered, and for a week or two the face she turned to meet her friend was grave and anxious enough.
He came almost every day now, he hardly knew why. Whatever the cause might be, he could not but see that his coming was always hailed with delight. Wherever the charm might be, whether in his voice or in the words he read, he could not tell; but he saw that his visits soothed her restlessness, and helped to banish the look of doubt and pain that too often saddened her face.
Sometimes he read the Bible, and stranger as he had for many years been to its sacred pages, he could not help yielding himself to the charm which the wonderful words he read there must ever have to a thoughtful mind. But the charm which the words had for his patient listener was something quite different from this. It was not the grandeur or sublimity of the style, or even the loftiness of the thought, that made her listen with such interest. She liked the simplest passages best. The simple narratives of the evangelists never lost their power to please her. Some word or promise, in which he saw little beauty, had often power to excite her deepest emotion, and he could not but wonder as he saw it.
He read other books too—little books left by visitors; very foolish little books he thought them often, and he could not but smile as he marked the interest with which she listened; but he never by smile or word intimated to her that he thought them trifling, at least he was never conscious of doing so. But he sometimes read in the grave, questioning eyes which Christie turned on him, a doubt whether that which was so real and so comforting to her was of any value to him.
He could not but confess to himself that, seen from Christie’s point of view, the subjects discussed in them must seem of grave importance; and he never lost the feeling, as he sat by her bed, that they had a meaning to her that was hidden from him.
Very few words were spoken between them at such times. When Christie asked a question or made a remark, there was a clearness and simplicity in her way of speaking, a strength and freshness in what she said, that often surprised as well as interested him. He did not always understand her, and yet he could not believe that she was speaking of things too high for her.
The thought flashed upon his mind one day, as he sat by her bed. What if among these things which were revealed to her but hidden from him, lay the secret of the happiness he had been so long and so vainly pursuing? There are things hidden from the wise and prudent, and revealed only to babes—even to such little ones as this suffering child.
Looking up as the thought passed through his mind, he met her eyes fixed wistfully upon him. She withdrew the gaze quickly, in some confusion, but in a moment looked up again.
“What is it, Christie? You looked as though you were afraid. I would read your thoughts. What grave question are you meditating now?”
Christie smiled.
“No, I was not afraid. I was wondering what could make you so kind to me. I need not have wondered, though. I know quite well why it is.”
“Do you? Well, suppose you tell me what you mean by ‘so kind,’ and then why it is that I am ‘so kind’ to you. I should really like to know,” said Mr Sherwood, laughing.
“I need not tell you the first,” she said, with a smile. “You know that very well, and it would take me too long to tell all. I think the reason of your kindness is because God has put it into your heart to be so. It is one of the ways He takes to help me to bear my troubles.”
The last words were spoken very gravely.
“Then it seems you don’t think I am one of the good people who take delight in kind offices.”
“I am sure no one could be kinder than you have been to me,” she said, eagerly.
“But you don’t think it is my way to be kind to people generally; I am not a philanthropist. Is that it?”
Christie looked puzzled and a little anxious. “Nay, you are not to look disconsolate about it,” said Mr Sherwood, laughing. “It is quite true. I am not at all like a benevolent person in a book. I was kind to you, as you call it, first to please my little cousin Gertrude, and then to please myself. So now you have the secret of it all.”
“Oh, but it is true for all that that God put it into your heart to come so often,” said Christie, with glistening eyes. “Your kindness gives me double pleasure when I think of it in that way.”
“Well, it may be so,” said Mr Sherwood, gravely; “but I don’t think it is generally supposed that God chooses to comfort His little ones by means of such a person as I am.”
Christie’s eyes were fixed wistfully upon him again.
“Such as you!” she exclaimed, quite unconsciously, as Mr Sherwood thought, for she said no more just then.
“I was writing to Effie to-day, and I tried to tell her how good you have been to me. But I could not. I could never make her understand it, I know. She would need to see it for herself.”
“My poor child,” said Mr Sherwood, smiling, “do you know you are talking foolishly? and that is a thing you seldom do. You are making a great deal out of a very little matter. The chances are that you do quite as much good to me as I shall ever do to you.”
“Oh, I wish I could think so! If I could get my wish for you—” She paused suddenly.
“Well, what would you wish for me?” asked Mr Sherwood, still smiling at her eagerness. “I dare say I should have no more trouble in this world if you could have your wish.”
Christie shook her head.
“I don’t think I ever wished that for you, and yet I have, too, in a way; for if that which I ask for you every day were to come to pass, you might have trouble, but it would never seem like trouble to you any more.”
“Well, I suppose that would answer every purpose of not having any more trouble, and you are very kind to wish it. But you say ‘ask’; so I suppose it is something which is in the giving of your Friend above?”
“Yes,” said Christie, softly; and then there was a pause.
“And what is it? Is it the ‘new heart and the right spirit’ we were reading about the other day? That seems to be the very best blessing that one can have, in your opinion. And do you really think I shall ever get it?”
“I hope you will,” she answered, eagerly. “I believe you will, if you only ask for it.”
“Ah, well, I don’t know. I have a fancy that your asking will be more to the purpose than mine.”
“I shall never forget to ask it for you. I have never forgotten it since—” she hesitated.
“Since when?” asked Mr Sherwood.
“Do you remember the day you came into the cedar walk, when I was telling little Claude the story of the blind man, and what you said to me that day? I don’t think I have ever forgotten since to pray the blind man’s prayer for you.”
Mr Sherwood was greatly surprised and touched. That was long ago. He had been far-away since then. Once or twice, perhaps, in connection with the remembrance of his little cousins, the thought of their kind, quiet nurse had come back to him. And yet she had never in all that time forgotten to ask for him what seemed to her to be the best of all blessings.
“And do you do that for all your friends?” he said. “How came you to think of doing this for me?”
“You did not seem very happy, I thought. You seemed like one searching for something that you could not find; and so I asked that your eyes might be opened.”
“Well, some day you must tell me how your eyes were opened, and perhaps that may help me.”
“Oh, no. I have nothing to tell, only I was very miserable often and discontented and troublesome. Afterwards it was all changed, and I was at peace.”
She lay quite still, as if she were weary, and when Mr Sherwood spoke again it was only to say good-bye.
But afterwards, at different times, she told him of the great happiness that had come to her through the grace of God, and he listened with an interest which sometimes increased to wonder. He mused on the simple recitals of the young girl with an earnestness which he could not explain to himself, and read the chapters which she pointed out as having done her good, partly for the pleasure of talking them over with her, and partly, too, because he began to see in God’s Word what he had never seen in it before.
But I had no thought of saying all this about Mr Sherwood. It was of the sad, yet happy days that Christie passed in the hospital that I wished to write, and they were drawing to a close now. But let me say just one word more about her friend. It all came to pass as Christie had been sure it would. The day came when, earnestly as blind Bartimeus, he prayed, ‘Lord, that mine eyes may be opened!’ And He who had compassion on the wayside beggar had compassion on him, and called him out of darkness into His marvellous light. I dare say she knows the glad tidings now. If she does not, she will know them soon, on the happy day when the friends shall meet “on the other side of the river.”
One day when Mr Sherwood came, he brought Gertrude with him. She had been prepared to find Christie very ill, but she had no thought of finding her so greatly changed. She was scarcely able to restrain her emotion at the sight of the pale, suffering face that told so sad a tale, and she was so much excited that Mr Sherwood did not like to go away and leave them together, as he had at first meant to do. She tried to say how grieved she was to see Christie so ill, but when she began to count how many months she had been lying there, her voice suddenly failed her.
“Yes; it is a long time,” Christie faintly said. But she thought herself no worse for a few days past. She had suffered much less with her knee of late, and she was beginning to hope that the worst was passed. She did not say much more about herself, except in telling how kind Mr Sherwood had been to her; but she had a great many questions to ask about the little boys, especially Claude, and about Gertrude herself, and all that she had been doing since they parted.
What a contrast they presented, these two young girls. There stood the one, bright and strong, possessing all that we are wont to covet for those we love—health and beauty, home and friends, and a fair prospect of a long and happy life. Sick and sorrowful and alone lay the other, her life silently ebbing away, her hold on the world and all it has to give slowly but surely loosening. Yet, in the new light which was beginning to dawn upon him, Mr Sherwood caught a glimpse of a contrast more striking still. On the couch before him lay a little suffering form, wasted and weary, soon to be hidden from the light, little to be mourned, quickly to be forgotten. But it soon vanished as from that lowly cot there rose before his gaze a spirit crowned and radiant and immortal.
Which was to be pitied? which to be envied? Before one lay life and its struggles, its trials and its temptations. With the other, these were past. A step more and the river is passed, and beyond lies a world of endless glory and bliss.
They did not linger very long. Promising to bring her back soon, Mr Sherwood hurried Gertrude away.
“Cousin Charles,” said she, eagerly, as they went down the long passage together, “we must take her away from this place. Nay, don’t shake your head. Mother will listen to what you say, and she will be willing to do much for one who did so much for her little boy. Only think of her lying all these months in that dreary room! Did you not hear her say she had not seen a flower growing all the summer? Oh, Cousin Charles, you will surely help me to persuade mother?”
“My dear,” said Mr Sherwood, gravely, “I fear she is not well enough to be moved. I do not think the physicians would consent to let her be taken away.”
“But are they making her better? I am sure the fresh air of the country would do her more good than all their medicines. Oh, such a suffering face! And her hands, Cousin Charles—did you notice her hands? I am afraid I have come too late. But she will surely grow better again when she is taken away from this place. It would kill any one to lie there long in that great room among all those poor suffering creatures. If I could only get her away! It would not cost much to take her, with a nurse, to some quiet place, if we could not have her at the house. I shall have money of my own some time. Cousin Charles, will not you speak to mother for me?” She was growing very eager and excited.
“Hush!” he said, gently. “Nothing but the impracticability of it could have prevented me from removing her to her own home, for which she has been pining so sadly. Have patience, and we will try what can be done. We will speak to the doctor about it.”
The physician was, fortunately, disengaged, and the subject of Christie’s removal suggested to him. But he objected to it more decidedly now than he had when Mr Sherwood had spoken of it some time before. It was doubtful whether in her present weak state she could bear removal, even if she could be as well cared for elsewhere. It was becoming doubtful whether her constitution could hold out much longer. Indeed, it could hardly be said to be doubtful. There was just one chance for her, he said; and then he spoke low, as though he did not wish Miss Gertrude to hear—but she did.
“You do not mean that her knee is never to be well again?” she asked, with a shudder.
“We have for some time feared so,” said the doctor. “Within a day or two symptoms have appeared which seem to indicate an absolute and speedy necessity for amputation. Poor little thing! It is very sad for her, of course.”
“Does she know it?” asked Miss Gertrude, steadying her voice with a great effort.
“I think she is not altogether unprepared for it. She must know that she is not getting better, and I fancy she must suspect the necessity from something she once said to the nurse. Poor girl! she seems to grieve quite as much on account of her friends as on her own.”
“Have they been informed of this—of the possible result of her illness?” asked Mr Sherwood.
“She has written to them several times during the summer, I believe. They seem to be very poor people, living at a distance—quite unable to do anything for her.”
They were soon on their way to meet Mrs Seaton, who had made an appointment with them, but Miss Gertrude was quite overcome by what she had seen and heard.
“Poor Christie! To think that all these weary months of waiting must end thus! I cannot help thinking we have been to blame.”
“My child, why should you say so?”
“To think of it coming to this with her, and her friends not knowing it! Her sister never would have left her here all this time, if she had thought her in danger. She ought to know at once.”
“Yes; they must be told at once,” said Mr Sherwood. “But I fancy, from what the doctor said, they can’t do much for her; and from the poor little thing herself I have gathered that the only one who could come to her is her elder sister, on whom the rest seem to be quite dependent.”
“But she must come, too,” said Gertrude, eagerly. “That is Effie. There is no one in all the world like Effie, Christie thinks. Oh, Cousin Charles, they have not always been poor. And they have suffered so much—and they love each other so dearly!”
“Gertrude, my child, there is a bright side even to this sad picture. Do you think that the suffering little creature, lying there all these months, has been altogether unhappy?”
Gertrude struggled with her tears, and said:
“She has the true secret of happiness.”
“Yes, I am sure of it. Seeing her, as I have, lying on that bed of pain, I have felt inclined rather to envy than to pity her. She has that for her own that a kingdom could not purchase—a peace that cannot be taken from her. I do not believe that even the sad necessity that awaits her will move her much now.”
His first words had stilled Miss Gertrude quite, and soon she found voice to say:
“Not for herself, but for her sisters. I am afraid they will think we have been very cruel. But it will be well with Christie, whatever happens.”
“Yes; it will be well with her, I do believe,” said Mr Sherwood, gravely; and neither spoke again till they reached home.