Christie Redfern's Troubles Part 17

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 grat.i.tude 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 pa.s.sing 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.

"I'll wait in the church for her to-day," she said to herself. "I'm tired, and it's later than usual. She'll know if I'm not there by half-past ten, and she'll come down. At any rate, I'm too tired to go up the hill."

Yes, she was very tired. The fresh air did not brighten and enliven her as it usually did. The warm, moist wind that came in gusts from the south was not invigorating, and she went slowly up the church-steps, glad that her walk was over. There was no one in the church. Even the s.e.xton was not visible; and Christie placed herself in her accustomed seat under the gallery, near the door, glad to rest in the pleasant stillness of the place. How quiet and peaceful it seemed! The sound of the moaning wind seemed to come from far-away, and the stillness within was all the deeper. After the noise and turmoil of six days, the silence was more grateful to her weary sense than the sound of sweetest music would have been; and closing her eyes, she leaned back, not to think, but to rest and be at peace.

Soon the congregation began to a.s.semble, but her repose was too deep to be disturbed by the sound of footsteps or the rustling of garments. She neither stirred nor heard a sound till Annie laid her hand upon her arm.

Then she awoke with a start, coming back to a realisation of time and place, with a flutter of confusion and pain.

"What ails you? Have you been sleeping? Are you not well?" whispered Annie, in alarm.

"Oh, yes, I'm well enough. I think I must have been sleeping, though,"

said Christie, scarcely able to restrain a laugh at Annie's astonishment.

"Sleeping! at this time of day, and in the kirk too!" exclaimed Annie.

"Well, never mind," said Christie, smiling, and holding down her head to hide her confusion. "Did you see David McIntyre? I'm almost sure I saw him in the street."

"Yes, I saw him. He brought this letter from Effie."

Christie took it from her.

"Don't read it now, in the kirk. There's nothing in it that will not keep. There is a little note for yourself inside. They are all well.

Why didna you come up to-day? I have something to tell you."

Christie listened eagerly.

"I canna tell you now," said her sister. "See, the people are nearly all in. But I'll come down to-night, if I can."

At that moment a hard-featured man, a little in front, turned his sharp eyes towards them, with a look that was intended to warn and reprove; so nothing more was said.

As Annie was walking home with Christie, "I'm thinking of changing my place," she said.

"Changing!" repeated Christie. "I thought you were quite content."

"Oh, it's not that. Mrs Vinton wishes it. Her younger sister is going to be married, it seems, and her mother, who is an invalid--something like Aunt Elsie, I should think--wants some one to be with her always.

She lives with a son, somewhere in the far West. Miss Emma--that's the sister--has been down. She thinks I should suit her mother, and Mrs Vinton is willing to spare me. I think I should like to go, for some things. The wages are higher."

"But so far-away," said Christie, in consternation; "and to leave me!"

"Yes, that's what disturbs me. You mustna stay when I go."

Christie shook her head. "I suppose there's the same need of my staying now that there was before," said she, quietly.

"But Effie was never quite willing that you should come, you know; and besides, your place is too hard for you."

"Just now it is, perhaps," interrupted Christie; "but Mr Lee is better, and we'll soon get into our old way again."

"But what I want is this," said Annie; "I want Sarah to come and take my place at Mrs Vinton's. I have told her about Sarah. And then you could go home and be with Effie."

"But _I_ never could do what Sarah does at home," said Christie; "taking care of Aunt Elsie and all. It would be far harder than what I have to do now."

"But you would be at home, and you would have some one to look after you. I could never think of such a thing as leaving you here alone."

"But, Annie, Sarah would be alone," remonstrated Christie.

"Yes, I know; but it's quite different with Sarah. She's strong and healthy, and will hold her own with anybody; and besides, I'm sure Effie will never hear of your staying here alone. But there's time enough to think about it. If I go, I shall spend a week at home first. No; I can't go in," said Annie, as they came to Mrs Lee's door. "I must go home. I shall write to Effie. Now, don't fret about this, or I shall wish I hadna told you;" for Christie looked very grave indeed.

"We'll wait and see what Effie thinks," said she, sadly.

"Well, you have her letter; and I'll come down to-night, if I can, and we'll talk it over. But, for any sake, dinna look so glum, as Aunt Elsie would say."

Christie laughed a little at her sister's excitement, but it was a very grave face that bent over the baby's cot that afternoon. The south wind had brought rain, and when night came, the drops dashed drearily against the window-panes. Listening to it, as she sat with the baby in her arms and the others sleeping quietly about her, Christie said to herself, many times, that Annie could never venture out in such a night. Yet she started at every sound, and listened eagerly till it had died away again. Effie's letter had told her nothing new. They were all well and happy, and the old question was asked, "When is Christie coming home again?" But the letter, and even the little note, more precious still, could not banish from her mind the thought of what Annie had said to her; and it seemed to her that she could not possibly wait for another week to hear more. The baby was restless, its mother was detained down-stairs, and Christie walked about and murmured softly to still the little creature's cries. But it was all done mechanically, and wearily enough. Through the baby's cries and her own half-forced song, and through the dreary sounds of the wind and rain, she listened for her sister's foot upon the stairs. She could not have told why she was so impatient to see her. Annie could tell her no more than she had already told her during their walk from church. But since the possibility of getting home had been suggested, the old feelings had started within her. A sudden rush of home-sickness had come over her, and with it the old unwillingness to go home and be a burden. She could fix her thoughts on nothing else. Even after the baby had fallen into an uneasy slumber, she wandered up and down the room, hus.h.i.+ng it in her arms as before.

There was a step on the stairs at last. It was not Annie, however, but Mrs Lee.

"I am afraid the baby has been fretful," she said, kindly, as she took the child in her arms. "You look tired, Christie."

"No; I'm not very tired." But she moved about the room, putting aside little frocks and shoes, keeping her face all the time from the light.

She was very much afraid that if Mrs Lee were to speak so gently again her tears must flow; and this must not be if she could possibly help it.

In the meantime, Mrs Lee had taken up a book, which lay on a table beside her. It was Christie's Bible; and when she had finished putting away the children's clothes worn through the day, and seated herself at a little distance, Mrs Lee said:

"You are fond of reading, Christie?"

Christie had many times asked permission to take a book into the nursery, when the children were asleep, and she answered:

"Yes, ma'am; I like to read, very much."

"And do you like to read the Bible? Some people seem to take great pleasure in it."

"Yes; I read it every day. I promised Effie I would."

Mrs Lee continued to turn over the leaves.

"Whose marks are these on the margin?" she asked.

"I suppose they are Effie's. John Nesbitt marked one or two for me, when I was staying at his mother's last summer. The rest are Effie's."

Mrs Lee read, "He shall cover thee with His feathers, and under His wings shalt thou trust."

"That was John's," said Christie, quickly. "One day a hawk came very near, and we saw the chickens run to take shelter with their mother; and in the evening John marked that pa.s.sage, because, he said, it was just the right one for a feeble, frightened, faithless little creature like me. I was not well at the time."

Christie paused, partly because she thought she had said enough, and partly because it would not have been easy for her to say more just then.

"I don't think your friend could have known you very well," said Mrs Lee, smiling. "He would never call you feeble, or frightened, if he knew all you have done, and what a comfort you have been to me, this winter."