Christie Redfern's Troubles

by Margaret M. Robertson

And worse than all, there were times when home-sickness, that could not be resisted or reasoned away, assailed her. Almost always it was at night—in the evenings, now growing so long, when no sound save the gentle breathing of the sleeping children broke the reigning silence. It was not so bad at such times, however, for she could then let her weary head fall, and weep a part of her troubles away. But sometimes in broad daylight, when in her walks with the children she crushed beneath her feet the dead leaves of the trees, while the autumn wind sighed drearily through their bare boughs, a pang of bitter loneliness smote her. Among the crowds she met she was always fancying familiar faces. More than once she sprang forward with a cry to grasp the hand of one who looked on her with the unheeding eyes of a stranger. If at such a time any one had come to her with a message from Effie, saying, “Come home,” she would probably have gone at all hazards—so dreary and lonely her life seemed to her.

It was not so with Annie. She made friends easily. She and Christie went to church; and but few Sabbaths passed before they met many who nodded and smiled to her bright-faced sister. But Christie was shy and quiet, and shrank from the notice of strangers; and up to the very last time that she passed through them, the busy streets of the city seemed a lonely place to her.

Christie never quite forgot the remedy tried for the first time beneath the boughs of the birch-tree by the brook. There were hours when it seemed to her now, as it seemed to her then, a cure for all the ills of life, a help in every time of need. There were times when, having nowhere else to go, she carried her burden to Effie’s chief Friend, and strove to cast it from her at His feet. She did not always succeed. Many a time she lay down in the dark, beside little Harry, altogether uncomforted. It seemed to her that nothing could help her but going home again. But it was only now and then, at rare intervals, that it seemed possible for her to go. Almost always she said to herself, “I canna go home. I must stay a little while, at least.” Sometimes she said it with tears and a sorrowful heart, but almost always she had courage to say it with firmness.

But now she was beginning to feel herself wrong in coming; or, rather, she began to see that her motive in coming was wrong. It was less to help Effie with the little ones, as she was now satisfied, than to escape from dependence on Aunt Elsie. Not that, even in her worst moments, Christie could make herself believe that her aunt did not gladly share the little that she had with her brother’s orphans, or that she would share it less willingly with her than with the others. The unwillingness was on her part. And the root of this unwillingness was pride, and an unforgiving remembrance of what she called her aunt’s harshness to her. Aunt Elsie had been at times more or less hard with all her nieces. But she had been so to Christie in a way different from the rest; and the child was willing to believe that the cause lay less in her waywardness than in her aunt’s unjust partiality. With such feelings permitted, nay, at times willingly indulged, no wonder that she too often failed to find the peace she sought.

But gradually the home-sickness wore away. Daily she became more useful and more valued in the nursery. She felt that Mrs Lee trusted her, and this did much to make her content. She almost always was patient when the children were in their exacting moods, and was always firm in refusing any forbidden pleasure. From her “your mamma would be displeased,” or her “it is not right,” there was no moving her; and of this the children soon became aware. She never assumed authority over them. They would have resented this quickly enough. But if the reward of a story or a merry game before bed-time was forfeited by ill-conduct, it was felt as a severe disappointment. For any disobedience or other naughtiness in the nursery, the refusal of a kiss for good-night was punishment enough. All children are not so easily guided or governed as the little Lees were; and few children are placed so entirely apart from evil influences as they were in those days. They were quick and restless, and full of spirit, but, as I have said, they were affectionate and tractable; and though often, before the last little busybody was safely disposed of for the night, Christie believed her strength and patience to be quite exhausted, her love for them increased day by day.

So the first three months of her absence from home wore away, and the merry Christmas-time drew nigh. Till now, Christie had seen little of the master of the house. He was rarely in for many days together. His business took him here and there through the country; and even when he was in the city he was not much at home. Once or twice he came into the nursery. He seemed fond of his children in a careless, indifferent way; but the children were shy and not very happy in his presence. If Mrs Lee was not happier when he was at home, she was certainly more sad and silent for a few days after he went away, and sighed often when she looked at her children, as though she were burdened with many cares.

About Christmas-time a great change took place in the household. In the course of one of his many journeys Mr Lee met with a serious accident. It was not pronounced serious at the time of its occurrence, but it became so through neglect. It was painful as well as dangerous, and confined him to the house during the greater part of the winter. From this time Christie’s duties became more arduous. Mrs Lee’s time and attention were frequently required by her husband, and the fragile little Ellinor then became the special care of Christie. The nursery, too, was removed to a room in the attic; for Mr Lee at first could not, and at last would not, bear the noise of the children; and Christie’s glimpse of the outer world extended only to roofs and chimneys now. The brief daily airings of the children were taken in a sleigh; and the doctor insisted that their mother should always share them. She was very delicate; and her husband, thoughtless and exacting, failed to perceive that her strength was too much tried. Mrs Greenly was engaged as his sick-nurse; but she could not be on the alert both night and day, and when she failed her place must be supplied by his uncomplaining wife. Night or day it was all the same. She was never sure of an hour’s respite.

So Christie reigned alone in the attic-nursery, and controlled and amused the children, and mended, and managed, and looked cheerful through it all, in a way that excited the admiration and astonishment of Mrs Greenly, and the thankful gratitude of Mrs Lee. How she got through it all she hardly knew. On the days when the baby was her exclusive care, it was bad enough. But by teaching the children to hail the coming of the little one as a mark of their mamma’s great confidence in them, she succeeded in making them share the responsibility with her. The boys would amuse themselves quietly for hours rather than disturb little Ellinor; and Letty (usually the most restless and wayward of them all) never grew weary of humming little songs, and otherwise amusing the baby, as she lay in the cot. So they went on better than might have been expected. But what with the close confinement in the house, and the climbing of two or three long flights of stairs, Christie grew pale and thin, and was many a time very weary.

She had one pleasant hour in the week. At ten on every Sabbath morning she called for her sister, and they went to church together. Not to the church they would have chosen at first. There they had difficulty in finding seats together; so they went elsewhere, with a friend of Annie’s, and after a time they had no desire to change. They rarely saw each other during the week. Annie sometimes came into Christie’s nursery; but the only real pleasure they had together was in the walk to and from church on Sabbath morning.

March was passing away. The snow was nearly gone, but there had been a shower during the night, and the pavements were wet, as Christie set out on her accustomed walk one morning. The wind blew freshly, too, and weary with the work of six days, she shrank from facing it, even for a little while, with her sister, so, at the street by which she usually went to the house where Annie lived, she paused.