Christie Redfern's Troubles

by Margaret M. Robertson

“It is not because she is stupid, or that she does not know anything else,” said Gertrude to herself. “She enjoys reading and learning as well as I do, and makes a far better use of the chance she has: and yet she lives on from day to day, wearying herself with little Claude, and stitching away, as though she cared for nothing beyond. Wouldn’t she enjoy being rich, and sending things to her family! Why, the delight she had over that common grey plaid that she sent to her aunt was quite absurd—and quite touching too. It cost her two months’ wages at the very least, but she did not seem to think of that. The only thing that marred her happiness at all that day was the want of a few pence that would have enabled her to buy a warm pair of slippers to go with the shawl. She doesn’t seem to think of herself. I wonder why?”

And Gertrude watched her still, thinking her often needlessly particular in the performance of small duties, and losing patience now and then, when these things interfered with her wishes. But the more she watched her daily life the more sure she felt that Christie had some secret of sweet peace which she had not yet found. She knew that her strength and cheerfulness daily renewed came from none of the helps to which one in her circumstances might naturally look. It was not the knowledge that she was valued, nor the feeling that little Claude was beginning to love her dearly, that sustained her; though Gertrude could see that these were pleasant and precious to the little maid. It was not even the thought of home, or Effie’s letters, or the pleasant word they brought of how she was missed and how they wished her with them. It was not the hope of the time when they should all be together again. To these ardent young people this re-union seemed by no means impossible, or even distant. With Gertrude’s help, Christie often built castles in the air, about a farm which was to be the wonder of the country-side, where they were all to live together, and where Gertrude herself was to pass many a pleasant day.

But it was not this, nor all of these, that brought the look of sweet contentment to that pale face, when she thought herself quite unobserved. It was there sometimes when she was wearied. She was not naturally hopeful or cheerful. She had none of that happy self-confidence which makes burdens light and causes difficulties to disappear. The source of her courage and patience was out of herself. Her gentle cheerfulness, flowing evenly through long days and weeks, sprang from some unseen fountain, pure and free and never-failing.

Sometimes it came into the young lady’s mind that Christie’s constant study of her little Bible had something to do with her being so different from any one she had ever known before. But both of them were a little shy about speaking of these things. They talked about the histories, and even about the doctrines, of the Bible. The stories that little Claude so delighted in all came from the Bible; and Christie had no shyness in speaking to him. To these stories, and the simple comments made on them, Gertrude sometimes listened when she seemed to be occupied with far other matters, and she would have liked very much to have heard more on some of the themes of which these conversations gave her only a hint. But Christie seldom talked about herself. It was only by slow degrees that she came to understand the secret of her content.

Coming one night later than usual into the upper nursery, she found Christie sitting with her little Bible in her hand. She shut it as Gertrude sat down beside her, but she did not put it away.

“I suppose it is too late to begin to read anything now?” said Gertrude. “I have been helping Miss Atherton to dress. You should have seen her! Her dress was splendid—too splendid for so small a party, mother thought. I wish I had called you to see her.”

“I wish you had, indeed,” said Christie, with real interest, for she was a great admirer of anything pretty. “I should like to have seen her. She is beautiful always.”

“Yes, but dress makes a difference even in beautiful people. I have seen ladies who looked quite plain at home by daylight, who were thought great beauties by those who only saw them at parties. But Miss Atherton is always beautiful. She will shine to-night.”

Gertrude sat for a little while gazing into the fire.

“Would you like to have gone with her?” asked Christie.