Christie Redfern's Troubles

by Margaret M. Robertson

More changes.

But I must not linger with Miss Gertrude and her troubles. It is the story of Christie that I have to tell. They went the same way for a little while, but their paths were now to separate.

For that came to pass which Gertrude had dreaded when Mr Sherwood went away. It was decided that she should go to school. She was too young to go into society. Her step-mother, encouraged by Miss Atherton, might have consented to her sharing all the gaieties of a rather gay season, and even her father might have yielded against his better judgment, had she herself been desirous of it. But she was not. She was more quiet and grave than ever, and spent more time over her books than was at all reasonable, as Miss Atherton thought, now that no lessons were expected from her.

She grew thin and pale, too, and was often moody, and sometimes irritable. She moped about the house, and grew stupid for want of something to do, as her father thought; and so, though it pained him to part with her, and especially to send her away against her will, he suffered himself to be persuaded that nothing better could happen to her in her present state of mind than to have earnest occupation under the direction of a friend of the family, who took charge of the education of a few young ladies in a pleasant village not far from their home.

It grieved her much to go. She had come to love her little brothers better than she knew till the time for parting drew near. This, and the dread of going among strangers, made her unhappy enough during the last few days of her stay.

“I can’t think how the house will seem without you,” said Christie to her, one night, as they were sitting together beside the nursery fire.

Gertrude turned so as to see her as she sat at work, but did not answer her for a minute or two.

“Do you know, I was just thinking whether my going away would make the least bit of difference in the world to you?” she said, at last.

There was no reply to be made to this, for Christie thought neither the words nor the manner quite kind, after all the pleasant hours they had passed together. She never could have guessed the thoughts that were in Gertrude’s mind in the silence that followed. She was saying to herself, almost with tears, how gladly she would change places with Christie, who was sitting there as quietly as if no change of time or place could make her unhappy. For her discontent with herself had by no means passed away. It had rather deepened as her study of the Bible became more earnest, and the strong, pure, unselfish life of which she had now and then caught glimpses seemed more than ever beyond her power to attain. When she tried most, it seemed to her that she failed most; and the disgust which she felt on account of her daily failures had been gradually deepening into a sense of sinfulness that would not be banished. She strove to banish it. She was indignant with herself because of her unhappiness, but she struggled vainly to cast it off. And when to this was added the sad prospect of leaving home, it was more than she could bear.

She had come up-stairs that night with a vague desire to speak to Christie about her troubles, and she had been trying to find suitable words, when Christie spoke. Her ungracious reply did not make a beginning any easier. It was a long time before either of them said another word, and it was Christie who spoke first.