Christie Redfern's Troubles Part 11

The evenings were always bright. There was no danger of being dull where Mrs Nesbitt's merry boys were. Her family consisted of four sons. John, the eldest, was just twenty-three--though, for some reason or other, the young Redferns were in the habit of thinking him quite a middle-aged man. Perhaps it was because he was usually so grave and quiet; perhaps because of a rumour they had heard that John meant, some day, to be a minister. He taught a Sabbath-cla.s.s too, and took part in meetings, like a much older man than he was.

The other lads were considerably younger. Lewis, the second son, was not yet eighteen; Charles was twelve, and little Dan not more than nine.

They were neither grave nor quiet. The house was transformed into a very different place when they crossed the threshold from the field or the school. In a fas.h.i.+on of her own, Christie enjoyed their fun and frolic very much. She told Effie, when she came to see her, that she had heard more laughter that week than she had heard in Canada in all her life before. As for them, they wondered a little at her shyness and her quiet ways; but they were tolerant, for boys, of her fancies and failings, and beguiled her into sharing many a ramble and frolic with them.

Once she went to her sister's school, which was three miles from the Nesbitt farm, and once she spent a day with Mrs Nesbitt at old Mrs Grey's, and they brought little Allie home with them. The little blind girl was a constant wonder and delight. She was as cheerful and happy as were any of the merry Nesbitt boys; and if there was less noise among them when she was one of the circle, there was no less mirth. To say that she was patient under her affliction would not be saying enough; she did not seem to feel her blindness as an affliction, so readily and sweetly did she accept the means of happiness yet within her reach. To Christie, the gentle, merry little creature was a constant rebuke, and all the more that she knew the little one was unconscious of the lesson she was teaching.

There was no service in the kirk the next Sabbath, so, instead of going home as usual, Effie, for Christie's sake, accepted Mrs Nesbitt's invitation to spend it at her house. She saw with delight the returning colour on her little sister's cheek, and noticed the change for the better that had taken place in her health and spirits, and inwardly she rejoiced over the success of her plan. "She shall have another week at this pleasant place, if possible--and more than that." And she sighed to think how much the poor girl might have to try both health and spirits when these pleasant weeks should be pa.s.sed. But she did not let Christie hear her sigh. She had only smiles and happy words for her.

It was a very pleasant Sabbath for Christie--the very pleasantest she could remember to have pa.s.sed. She could not agree with Charlie Nesbitt that it was "a little too long." She enjoyed every moment of it. She enjoyed the early walk, the reading, the singing, and the walk to John Nesbitt's Sabbath-cla.s.s in the afternoon. It was rather far--three miles, nearly--and the walk tired her a little. But all the more for that did she enjoy her rest on the low sofa after tea.

It was a very pleasant place, that parlour of Mrs Nesbitt's--so neat, so cool, so quiet. There was not much to distinguish it from other parlours in Laidlaw; and, in general, they were prim and plain enough.

There was a small figured carpet, crimson and black, upon the floor. It did not quite reach the wall on one side, for Mrs Nesbitt's Scottish parlour had been smaller than this one; and the deficiency was supplied by a breadth of drugget, of a different shade of colour, which might have marred the effect somewhat to one more fastidious than Christie.

For the rest, the chairs were of some common wood and painted brown, the sofa was covered with chintz to match the window-curtains, and there was a pale blue paper on the walls. For ornaments, there were two or three pictures on the walls, and on the mantel-piece a great many curious sh.e.l.ls and a quaint old vase or two. There was a bookcase of some dark wood in the corner, which was well filled with books, whose bindings were plain and dark, not to say dingy. There were few of Christie's favourites among them; so that the charm of the room did not lie there.

There was another small cabinet, with a gla.s.s door--a perfect treasury of beautiful things, in Christie's estimation, old china and gla.s.s, and an old-fas.h.i.+oned piece or two of plate; but the key was safely kept in Mrs Nesbitt's pocket.

Perhaps it was the charm of a.s.sociation that made the place so pleasant to Christie. Here, every day, she had been made to rest on the chintz sofa, and every day she had wakened to find a kind face beaming upon her and to hear a kind voice calling her by name. I think almost any place would have been pleasant with Mrs Nesbitt going about so gently and lovingly in it. Some thought of this came into Christie's mind, as she lay musing there that Sabbath afternoon. The fading light fell on the soft grey hair that showed beneath the widow's snowy cap, and on the placid face beneath, with a strangely beautifying power. The sweet gravity that was on her silent lips was better worth seeing, Christie thought, than other people's smiles. Her eyes had no beauty, in the common acceptation of the term. They seemed like eyes that had been washed with many tears. But the sadness which must have looked from them once had given place to patience and gentle kindness now.

"How nice and quiet it is here!" whispered Christie to her sister, who sat beside her, leaning her head upon her hand.

Effie quite started, as she spoke.

"Yes; it is a very peaceful place. I get rid of all vexing thoughts when I come in here." And she turned her eyes to Mrs Nesbitt's placid face.

"Vexing thoughts!" repeated Christie. "I dare say Effie has many a one." And she sighed too; but almost before she had time to ask herself what Effie's vexing thoughts might be, she was asleep. A voice, not Effie's nor Mrs Nesbitt's, soon awoke her. The twilight had deepened, and up and down the darkening room John Nesbitt was walking, with a step quicker than was usual. Christie fancied there was something like impatience in his step. He soon came and leaned on the window, close to the place where Effie sat, and Christie heard him say, in a voice which was not quite steady:

"Is it all over, then, Effie?"

Effie made a sudden movement of some kind, Christie could not tell what, and after a moment she said:

"It would be better for you, John."

He did not wait to hear more. Soon, however, he came back again.

"And will it be better for you, Effie?" he asked, gravely and gently, yet with strong feeling.

"I must think of many a one before myself in this matter," she said; and soon after added, "Don't make this trouble harder to bear, John."

There was a long silence; but John did not resume his walk, and by and by Effie spoke again.

"Do you never think of your old wish to finish your studies?"

"My father's death put an end to that," he answered, sadly.

"I don't know why," said Effie. "Of course at the time it must have done so; but you are young, and your brothers are growing up to take your place with your mother and on the farm, and I think it would be like putting your hand to the plough and looking back, to give up all thought of entering the ministry. You have your life before you, John."

He did not answer.

"If it were for no other reason than that," continued Effie, "I could not consent to burden you in the way you propose; and besides--your mother--"

She turned, and caught the astonished eyes of Christie peering out of the darkness, and paused.

"Effie," said Christie, when they were in their own room, and the candle was out, "what were you saying to John Nesbitt to-night?"

"Saying?" repeated Effie.

"Yes--in the parlour. Does he want us to come and live here? I thought he did by what he said."

"Some of us," said Effie, after a pause. "John is very kind, and so is his mother. But of course it is not to be thought of."

"Must we leave the farm, Effie?" asked Christie, anxiously.

"I hardly know; I cannot tell. Aunt Elsie must decide."

"Is it not ours, Effie? Was my father in debt?"

"Not for the farm; but it was paid for, or partly paid for, with money that belonged to Aunt Elsie. I canna explain it. She sold her annuity, or gave up her income, in some way, when we came here. And in the letter that father wrote, he said that he wished that in some way, as soon as possible, she should get it back."

"But how?" asked Christie, wondering.

"I hardly know. But you know, Christie, Aunt Elsie is not like other people--mean; it would make her more unhappy to feel that she was dependent than it would make most people. And we must, in some way, manage to do as father wished. If he had lived, it would have been different. She doesna think that I know about it. She didna see father's letter."

"Then the farm will be Aunt Elsie's?" said Christie.

"Yes; and if we could manage it well, we might live on as we have been living; but I am afraid we canna."

Christie had her own thoughts about all living on Aunt Elsie's farm; but she said nothing.

"I suppose we shall have to let the farm, or sell it, and get the money invested, in some way, for Aunt Elsie."

"And what then?" asked Christie, in a suppressed tone.

"I am sure I canna tell," said Effie; and the tone of her voice betrayed more anxiety than her words did. "Not that there is any great cause for anxiety," she added. "There is always work to do for those who are willing; and we'll try and keep together till the bairns are grown up."

"Will Aunt Elsie go home to Scotland, do you think, Effie?" asked Christie.

"Oh, no! I don't think she will. She doesna like this country altogether, I know; but now that she has grown so helpless, she will not care to go back. She has no very near friends there now."

"Do you think Aunt Elsie would take the money if the farm was sold?"

asked Christie, again.

"As to that, it has been partly hers all along. When the farm was bought, my father gave Aunt Elsie a mortgage, or something--I don't understand exactly what--but it was as a security that her money was to be safe to her. If we had been able to carry on the farm, there would have been little difference; though there are some other debts too."

"And if we leave the farm, where can we go?" asked Christie.

"I don't know; I lose myself thinking about it. But G.o.d will provide.

I am not _really_ afraid, when I have time to consider. The bairns must be kept together in some way. We must trust till the way is opened before us."

But there was something very unlike Effie's usual cheerfulness in her way of speaking. Christie could plainly see that. But she mistook the cause.