Christie Redfern's Troubles Part 38

"Oh, yes! it is easily said, 'have patience.' I would give a great deal to be naturally as gentle and patient and even-tempered as you are."

"As I am!" said Christie, laughing; but she looked grave in a moment.

"That shows how little you know of me, if indeed you are not mocking me in saying that."

"No; you know very well I am not mocking you now, though I was a little while ago. I don't think I have seen you angry since you came here-- really angry, I mean."

"Well, no, perhaps not angry. Do you really think I am gentle and even-tempered?" she asked, suddenly, turning her face towards her. "I am sure I used not to be. But then I have so little to try me now."

"Well, I think you have had enough just for to-day, what with the boys and with me. But if you were not always patient and good, what changed you? What did you do to yourself? Tell me about it, as Claude would say."

"Oh, I don't know what I could tell," said Christie, in some embarra.s.sment. "I only mind what a peevish, good-for-nothing little creature I was. The others could have had little pleasure with me, only they were strong and good-tempered and didn't mind. Even to Effie I must have been a vexation; but mother gave me to her care when she died, and so she had patience with me. I was never well, and my mother spoiled me, they said. I'm sure it was a sad enough world to me when she died. And then my aunt came to live with us, and she was so different. And by and by we came to Canada, and then everything was changed. I mind, sometimes, if a body only looked at me I was in a pet.

I was not well, for one thing, and I used to fancy that my aunt liked me less and had less patience with me than with the rest; and no wonder, when I think of it. Effie was good and kind to me always, though I must have tried her many a time."

"Well," said Miss Gertrude, "but you don't tell me what changed you."

"Well, I can't tell. I believe I was never quite so bad after the time Effie gave me my Bible." And she gave Miss Gertrude the history of the miserable day with which our story commenced--of her trying to pray under the birch-tree by the brook, of Effie's coming home with the book-man, and of their walk to the kirk and the long talk they had together.

"And it was soon after that that my father was hurt and my aunt grew ill again. We had a very sorrowful winter. But there is one good thing in having real trouble to bear; one doesn't fret so much about little things, or about nothing at all, as I used to do. I think that winter was really happier to me than any time I had had since my mother's death. I was with my father a great deal towards the end; and though he was so ill and suffered so much, he was very kind and patient with me."

There was a long pause before Christie could go on again, and she rather hurried over the rest of her tale.

"After he died we left the farm. I came here with Annie. I was very home-sick at first. Nothing but that I couldn't bear to go home and depend on Aunt Elsie kept me here. I thought sometimes I must die of that heart-sickness, and besides, I made myself unhappy with wrong thoughts. In the spring Annie went away. I couldn't go, because Mrs Lee and the children were ill; you mind I told you about that. I was unhappy at first; but afterwards I was not, and I never was again--in the same way, I mean."

The work she had been busy upon dropped from her hands, and over her face stole the look of peace and sweet content that Gertrude had so often wondered at. For a little while she sat quite still, forgetting, it seemed, that she was not alone; and then Gertrude said, softly.

"Well, and what then?"

Christie drew a long breath as she took up her work.

"Well, after that, something happened. I'm afraid I can't tell it so that you will understand. It seems very little just to speak about, but it made a great difference to me. I went to the kirk one day when a stranger preached. I can't just mind the words he said, at least I can't repeat them. And even if I could I dare say they would seem just common words to you. I had heard them all before, many a time, but that day my heart was opened to understand them, I think. The way that G.o.d saves sinners seemed so plain and wise and sure, that I wondered I had never seen it so before. I seemed to see it in a new way, and that it is all His work from beginning to end. He pardons and justifies and sanctifies, and keeps us through all; and it seemed so natural and easy to trust myself in His hands. I have never been very unhappy since that day, and I don't believe I shall ever be very unhappy again."

There was a long silence. Miss Gertrude was repeating to herself, over and over again:

"His work, from beginning to end! He pardons, justifies, sanctifies, and saves at last."

So many new and strange thoughts crowded into the young girl's mind that for the moment she forgot Christie and her interest in all she had been saying. Word by word she repeated to herself, "pardons," "justifies,"

"sanctifies," "saves."

"I cannot understand it." And in a little while, bewildered with her own speculations, she turned from the subject with a sigh.

"Well, and what else?" she said to Christie.

"Oh, there is no more. What were we speaking about? Oh, yes; about having patience. Well, when one has a great good to fall back upon, something that cannot be changed or lost or taken from us, why, it is easy to have patience with common little things that cannot last long and that often change to good. Yes, I do think I am more patient than I used to be. Things don't seem the same."

It filled Gertrude with a strange unhappiness to hear Christie talk in this way. The secret of the little maid's content appeared so infinitely desirable, yet so unattainable by her. She seemed at once to be set so far-away from her--to be shut out from the light and pleasant place where Christie might always dwell.

"I don't understand it," she repeated to herself. "If it were anything that could be reasoned out or striven for, or even if we could get it by patient waiting. But we can do nothing. We are quite helpless, it seems."

In her vexed moments Gertrude sometimes took pleasure in starting objections and asking questions which Christie found it difficult to answer.

"It is all real to her, though. One would think, to see her sitting there, that there is nothing in the world that has the power to trouble her long. And there really is nothing, if she is a child of G.o.d--as she says. What a strange thing it is!"

She sat watching the little absorbed face, thinking over her own vexed thoughts, till the old restless feeling would let her sit no longer.

Rising, she went to the window and looked out.

"What a gloomy day it is!" she said. "How low the clouds are, and how dim and grey the light is! And listen to the wind moaning and sighing among the trees! It is very dreary. Don't you think so, Christie?"

Christie looked up. "Yes, now that you speak of it, it does seem dreary; at least, it seems dreary outside. And I dare say it seems dreary in the house to you. Have they all gone out?"

"Yes; and there is to be no six o'clock dinner. They are to dine in town and go to some lecture or other. I almost wish I had gone."

"I promised Claude that if he was very good he should go down to the drawing-room, and you would sing to us," said Christie. "We must air the nursery, you know."

"I have been very good, haven't I, Tudie?" said the little boy, looking up from the pictures with which he had been amusing himself.

"Very good and sweet, my darling," said Gertrude, kneeling down by the low chair on which her little brother sat. She put her arms around him, and drawing his head down on her breast, kissed him many times, her heart filling full of tenderness for the fragile little creature. The child laughed softly, as he returned her caresses, stroking her cheeks and her hair with his little thin hand.

"You won't be cross any more, Tudie?" he said.

"I don't know, dear. I don't mean to be cross, but I dare say I shall be, for all that."

"And will you sing to Christie and me?"

"Oh, yes; that I will--to your heart's content."

She had taken him in her arms, and was sitting with him on her lap, by this time; and they were silent, while Christie moved about the room, putting things away before they should go down-stairs.

"Christie," said Gertrude, "do you know I think Claude must be changed as you say you are? He is so different from what he used to be!"

Christie stood quite still, with the garment she had been folding in her hands.

"He is much better," she said. "He does not suffer as he used to do."

"No. Well, perhaps that is it. Do you think he is too young to be changed? But if the change is wrought by G.o.d, as you say it is, how can he be too young?"

Christie came and knelt beside them.

"I don't know. I suppose not. You know it is said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto Me.'"

The little boy looked from one to the other as they spoke.

"It was Jesus who said that--Jesus, who opened the eyes of the blind man. And He loved us and died for us. I love Him dearly, Tudie."

The girls looked at each other for a moment. Then Christie kissed his little white hands, and Gertrude kissed his lips and his s.h.i.+ning hair, but neither of them spoke a word.

"Now, Tudie, come and sing to Christie and me," said the child, slipping from her lap, and taking her hand.

"Yes; I will sing till you are weary." And as she led him down-stairs and through the hall, her voice rose clear as a bird's, and her painful thoughts were banished for that time.