Christie Redfern's Troubles

by Margaret M. Robertson

“Effie,” said Christie, “move me a little, and lie down beside me. I have something to say to you, and there can be no better time than now. You are weary with your long watching. Rest beside me.”

Her sister arranged the pillow and lay down beside her. Clasping her wasted arms about her neck, Christie said:

“Effie, you don’t often say wrong or foolish things, but what you said just now was both wrong and foolish. You must never say it or think it any more. Have I not been in safe keeping, think you? Nay! do not grieve me by saying that again,” she added, laying her hand upon her sister’s lips, as she would have spoken. “It all seems so right and safe to me, I would not have anything changed now, except that I should like to see them all at home. And I dare say that will pass away as the end draws near. It will not be long now, Effie.” She paused from exhaustion, only adding: “I am not afraid.”

The much she had to say was not said that night. The sisters lay silently in each other’s arms, and while Christie slumbered, Effie prayed as she had never prayed before, that she might be made submissive to the will of God in this great sorrow that was drawing nearer day by day.

After this they spoke much of the anticipated parting, but never sadly any more. Effie’s prayers were answered. God’s grace did for her what, unaided, she never could have done for herself. It gave her power to watch the shadow of death drawing nearer and nearer, without shrinking from the sight. I do not mean that she felt no pain at the thought of going back to her home alone, or that she had quite ceased to blame herself for what she called her neglect of her suffering sister. Many a long struggle did she pass through during the hours when Christie slumbered. But she never again suffered a regretful word to pass her lips; she never for a moment let a cloud rest on her face when Christie’s eyes were matching her. She had soothing words for the poor child’s restless moments. If a doubt or fear came to disturb her quiet trust, she had words of cheer to whisper; and when—as oftenest happened—her peace was like a river, full and calm and deep, no murmurs, no repining, fell from the loving sister’s lips to disturb its gentle flow.

And little by little, as the uneventful days glided by peace, and more than peace—gratitude and loving praise—filled the heart of Christie’s sister. What could she wish more for the child so loved than such quiet and happy waiting for the end of all trouble? A little while sooner or later, what did it matter? What could she wish more or better for any one she loved? It would ill become her to repine at her loss, so infinitely her sister’s gain.

The discipline of these weeks in her sister’s sick-room did very much for Effie. Ever since their mother’s death, and more especially since their coming to Canada, a great deal had depended on her. Wise to plan and strong to execute, she had done what few young girls in her sphere could have done. Her energy had never flagged. She delighted to encounter and overcome difficulties; she was strong, prudent, and far-seeing, and she was fast acquiring the reputation, among her friends and neighbours, of a rare business woman.

It is just possible that, as the years passed, she might have acquired some of the unpleasing qualities so apt to become the characteristic of the woman who has no one to come between her and the cares of business or the shifts and difficulties incident to the providing for a family whose means are limited. Coming in contact, as she had to do, with a world not always mindful of the claims of others, she found it necessary to stand her ground and hold her own with a firmness that might seem hardly compatible with gentleness. Her position, too, as the teacher of a school—the queen of a little realm where her word was law—tended to cultivate in her strength and firmness of character rather than the more womanly qualities. It is doubtful whether, without the sweet and solemn break in the routine of her life which these months in her sister’s sick-room made, she would ever have grown into the woman she afterwards became. This long and patient waiting for God’s messenger gave her the time for thought which her busy life denied her.

Now and then, during the quiet talks in which, during her more comfortable hours, they could still indulge, there was revealed to Effie all the way by which God had led her sister; at the same time there was revealed all that He had permitted her to do for His glory, and at this she was greatly moved. She had only been a little servant-maid, plain and humble and obscure. There was nothing to distinguish her in the eyes of those who saw her from day to day. Yet God had greatly honoured her. He had made her a messenger of grace to one, to two—perhaps to more. When that little, worn-out frame was laid aside, it might be, thought Effie, that the immortal spirit, crowned and radiant, should stand nearer to the throne than some who were held in honour by the wise and the good of this world.

Sitting there, listening and musing, Effie saw, more clearly than she ever could have seen in the bustle of her busy life, how infinitely desirable it is to be permitted to do God’s work in the world. Those were days never to be forgotten by her. She grew thin and wan with confinement and watching, but as the time drew near when her present care should cease and she should go home again, her face wore a look of peace beautiful to see.