Christie Redfern's Troubles Part 25

"It's a wonder to me," said John, smiling.

"Oh, but I mean people that may live wherever they choose. There are people that like the town best. Where it is right to stay, I suppose one can be content in time. I think if I hadna home and the rest to think about and wish for, I might be willing to live here always. But at first--oh, I thought I could never, _never_ stay! But I am not sorry I came. I shall never be sorry for that."

There was something in her earnest manner, and in the happy look that came over her face as she spoke, that arrested the attention of John; and he said:

"You have been happy here, then, upon the whole?"

"Yes; upon the whole," repeated she, thoughtfully; "but it wasna that I was thinking about."

"Christie, do you know I think you have changed very much since you used to come and see my mother? You have changed; and yet you are the very same: there's a paradox for you, as Peter O'Neil would say."

His words were light, but there was a meaning in his grave smile that made Christie's heart leap; and her answer was at first a startled look, and then a sudden gush of happy tears. Then came good John Nesbitt's voice entreating a blessing on "his little sister in Christ"; and this made them flow the faster. But, oh, they were such happy, happy tears!

and very happy was the hour that followed.

Now and then there comes an hour, in the intercourse of friends with each other, which reveals to each more of the inner and spiritual life of the other than years of common intercourse could do; and this was such an hour. I cannot tell all that was said. The words might seem to many a reader tame and common-place enough, but many of them Christie never forgot while she lived, and many of them John Nesbitt will not cease to remember to his dying day.

Christie had no thought of showing him all that was in her heart. She did not think that the friend who was listening so quietly to all the little details of her life among strangers--her home-sickness, her fears and weariness, her love and care for the children and their mother--was all the time thanking G.o.d in his heart for all the way by which this little lamb had been led to take refuge in the fold. She knew by the words he spoke, before he rose to go, that he was much-moved. They came back to her many a time afterwards, brightening the sad days, and comforting her when she was in sorrow. They helped her to the cheerful bearing of a disappointment near at hand.

As for John, he was far from thinking the day lost that he had devoted to the pleasure of Christie. If in the morning the hope of possessing at once the much-desired books had been given up with a sigh, it was the sigh, and not the sacrifice, that was regretted now. With a sense of refreshment unspeakable there came to his remembrance the Saviour's promise that the giving of a cup of cold water to one of His little ones should have its reward. To have supported those weary feet, if ever so little, in the way, to have encouraged the faint heart or brightened the hope of this humble child, was no unworthy work in the view of one whose supreme desire it was to glorify Him who came from heaven to earth to speak of hope to the poor and lowly. Nor was this all. He was learning, from the new and sweet experiences which the child was so unconsciously revealing to him, a lesson of patient trustfulness, of humble dependence, which a whole library of learned books might have failed to teach him.

The shadows were growing long before they rose to go.

"You'll be very tired to-morrow, I'm afraid," said John, as they went slowly down the broad, steep way that leads from the cemetery. "I'm afraid your holiday will do you little good."

"It has done me good already. I'm not afraid," said Christie, cheerfully. "Only I'm sure I shall think of twenty things I want to ask you about when you are fairly gone."

"Well, the best way will be to collect your wits and ask about them now," said John, laughing.

And so she did. Matters of which her sister's letters and chance callers had only given her hints were recalled, and discussed with a zest that greatly shortened the way. They were not very important matters, except as they were connected with home life and home friends; but if their way had been twice as long, the interest would not have failed.

"But, John," said Christie, at last, "what was it that Davie McIntyre was telling me about Mr Portman's failure? Is it really true? and has he left his wife and little children and gone--n.o.body knows where?"

"Yes, it is too true," John said, and added many painful particulars, which he never would have given if he had had his wits about him.

Christie's next question recalled them, with a shock which was not altogether pleasant.

"Was it not Mr Portman who had Aunt Elsie's money? Then she has lost it, I suppose?"

"Yes, it's too true," said John, with an uncomfortable conviction that Effie would far rather her little sister had not heard of it yet. He did not say so, however, and there was a long silence.

"I wonder what Effie will do?" said Christie, at last.

"Now, Christie, my woman," said John, rather more hastily than was his habit, "you are not going to vex yourself about this matter. You know, if anybody can manage matters well, your sister Effie can; and she has a great many friends to stand between her and serious trouble. And I don't believe she intended that you should know anything about this--at any rate, until you were safe at home."

Christie was sure of that. There was no one like Effie. John could tell her nothing new about her goodness. But if it had been needful that they should be separated before, it was still more necessary now that she should be doing her part; and she intimated as much to John.

"But you must mind that Effie was never clear about your leaving home.

If she had had her way, you never would have left."

"I am very glad I came," was all that Christie replied, but in a little while she added, "John, I think, on the whole, you may as well take all the things home with you, if you can. The sooner they get them the better; and something may happen to hinder me."

"Christie," said John, gravely, "Effie has set her heart on your coming home this summer. It would grieve her sorely to be disappointed. You are not going to disappoint her?"

"I don't know," said Christie, slowly. "I'm sure Effie would rather I should do what is right than what is pleasant."

"But you are not well, Christie. You are not strong enough to live as you have been living--at least, without a rest. It would grieve Effie to see how pale and thin you are."

"I am not very strong, I know, but I shall have an easier time now; and if Mrs Lee should take the children to the country or the sea-side, I should be better. I am sure I wish to do what is right. It is not that I don't wish to go home."

Christie's voice suddenly failed her.

"It seems like a punishment to me," she added, "a judgment, almost. You don't know--Effie dinna ken even--how many wrong feelings I had about coming away. I thought nothing could be so bad as to have to depend on Aunt Elsie, and now--" Something very like a sob stopped her utterance.

"Whisht, Christie!" said John. "G.o.d does not send trouble on His people merely to punish; it is to do them good. You must take a more comforting view of this trouble. I am afraid the pleasure of the day is spoiled."

"No! oh, no!" said Christie eagerly. "n.o.body could do that. There are some pleasures that canna be spoiled. And besides, I am not going to vex myself. It will all come right in the end, I am quite sure. Only just at first--"

"Thou shalt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee," whispered John.

"I know it;" and that was all she could say.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

SISTERS IN CHRIST.

Christie found, on reaching home, that Mr Lee had returned, and when John called in the morning she was able to tell him it was decided that the family should go to the sea-side for a month.

"And considering all things, John, I am glad that Mrs Lee wants me to go too. I shall have time for a long visit at home when I come back again, before summer is over. The sea air will make me strong. You know we lived near the sea at home. And I should like to take a pair of red cheeks home to Glengarry."

John was not altogether satisfied with her cheerful words; but there seemed nothing better for any of them but to make the best of it.

"It might be far worse for you, my la.s.sie," he said, cheerfully. "I would have liked to take you home with me to Glengarry, for your sake and theirs. But if you'll promise not to let the look come back that I saw first in your face, I'll leave you with a good heart, and tell no sad tales to Effie and the rest."

It was all that she could do, even now, to keep a bright face, but she did; and John went away, taking with him the remembrance of it at its very brightest.

The next few days were too busy to give time for regretful thoughts.

The children came home, and there was the making of their dresses, and all the necessary preparations for a journey and a lengthened absence from home.

Christie had only time for a hurried letter to Effie, telling her of their plans. She wrote quite cheerfully. She was not strong, and the runnings to and fro of the day often made her too weary to sleep at night. But she was useful, she knew, and Mrs Lee's gentle kindness proved that she appreciated her efforts to do her duty, and that helped to make her work pleasant and easy. And there was, besides, an excitement in the prospect of a change of scene. Looking forward to a sight of the sea, to feeling the sea-breeze again, to getting away from the heat and dust and confinement of the city, was enough to help her through the day's toils and troubles. And so she felt and wrote cheerfully, notwithstanding the disappointment that had been so hard to bear.

But a disappointment which she was to feel still more bitterly awaited her. The preparations for departure were nearly-completed. Mrs Lee had so far recovered as to be able to go out, and they looked forward to leaving within a day or two.

One afternoon, while Mrs Lee was superintending the packing that was going on in the nursery, her husband came in. Christie had hardly seen him since little Harry died. He looked grave enough as he came in. He did not speak to her, but in a little while she heard him mention her name, and her heart stood still, as she heard him say:

"You don't mean to tell me that you are to have no one to take care of the children and wait on you while you are away, but that child? Why, she looks as though she needed to be taken care of herself. I can never think of permitting such a thing."

Christie felt, rather than saw, the look of entreaty that pa.s.sed over Mrs Lee's face as she laid her hand upon her husband's arm. Meeting Christie's startled gaze, she said: