And so she sat in the dark, sometimes slumbering, sometimes thinking, till the baby’s whimpering cry summoned her back to her usual care.
The next week was better in all respects than the last. Letty grew well rapidly, and her mother improved a little day by day. The doctor, looking now and then into the attic-nursery, gave them hope at last that the little ones might escape the fever for this time; and Christie’s thoughts began to turn homeward again. But not so anxiously as before. The pain of parting from the children would be harder now. And during these days she began to feel a strange yearning tenderness for the poor young mother, scarcely less helpless and in need of care than they. It had come to be quite the regular thing now for Mrs Greenly to take an hour’s rest in the attic-nursery when the children had fallen asleep, while Christie took her place in Mrs Lee’s room.
New and wonderful were the glimpses which those twilight hours gave to Christie. She found that Mrs Lee, sitting in her drawing-room, or even in the nursery, giving directions about the care of the children, was a very different person from Mrs Lee lying in bed feverish or exhausted, looking back over the days of her childhood, or forward to a future that was anything but hopeful to her disenchanted eyes. Naturally reserved, the lady had made but few acquaintances in the city, and had not one intimate friend; and now, when weak and weary and desponding, it was a relief to her to speak to some one of the times and places and events over which memory had brooded in silence for so many years. She never dreamed what glimpses of her heart she was giving to her little nurse. She only saw the sympathy expressed by Christie’s grave face or eager gesture; and she talked to her, sometimes regretfully enough, about her mother and her brothers and her childish days. Yet, sad as those memories were, they were scarcely so sad as the thoughts she sent out into the future. She did not often speak her fears; but her silence and her frequent sighs were to Christie more eloquent than words.
Christie rarely spoke at such times as these—never, except when a question was asked; and then her reply was generally prefaced with, “I have heard my father say,” or, “Effie once told me,” or, “I heard John Nesbitt saying.” Ignorant as she knew herself to be on the most important of all subjects, she was yet far wiser than her mistress. Some of Christie’s simple remarks and suggestions made an impression on her heart that wiser and more direct teachings might have failed to make.
As for Christie, in her sympathy for Mrs Lee’s troubles, she almost forgot her own. In striving to relieve her from all anxiety about the children, she was ready to forget even her own weariness; and in the knowledge that she was doing some good to them all, she ceased to regret that Annie had gone home without her.
Chapter Nine.
Light in darkness.
The week passed. Sunday morning came; and out of a broken, uneasy slumber, Christie was awakened by the fall of rain-drops on the window. In the midst of the trouble and turmoil of the week she had striven to be patient; but through it all she had looked forward to the two hours’ respite of the Sabbath, and now it seemed to her that she could not be denied. Turning her aching eyes from the light, she did not, for a moment or two, try to restrain her tears. But she could not indulge herself long, if she had been ever so much inclined. For soon arose the clamour of childish voices, that must be stilled. So Christie rose, and bathed her hot eyes, and strove to think that, after all, the clouds were not so very thick, and they might break away in time for her to go.