Christie Redfern's Troubles Part 44

"They are all well now, but little Will had the scarlet fever, and Effie couldn't leave him; and now her holidays are over, and she cannot come to see me."

"Did you expect her?"

"I did not expect her; but now her holidays are over, she cannot possibly come, I know."

"I fear you must be greatly disappointed!" said Mr Sherwood, kindly.

"Yes, at first. For a little while I felt as though no one cared for me, but that was foolish and wrong. If Effie had known how ill I am, she would have come, though it is such a long way. I am afraid I have not done right in not telling her."

"But you cannot mean that your sister does not know that you are here, and that you are very ill?" said Mr Sherwood, in some surprise.

"She knows I am here, but she does not know all. I had just written to her when the doctor told me I must come here for a while, so I waited till I should be able to tell her I was better. When I wrote I did not tell her how long I had been here; there was no use in troubling them all at home, for it would make them very sorry to know I was suffering all alone, and they cannot spare either time or money to undertake the journey here. I kept hoping I should soon be better. She thinks, I suppose, that I am quite well and at my work in the nursery again. But I am afraid she ought to know just how I am. I am not better, and if anything were to happen--"

If any one had asked Mr Sherwood if he thought Christie was likely to recover, he would hardly have said that her case was a very hopeful one.

But when he heard Christie speaking in this way, his impulse was (as it too often is in such circ.u.mstances) by cheerful and hopeful words to put the too probable event out of her thoughts, and he said:

"But you are not to think anything is to happen. Why, we shall have you ready for a race with Master Claude in the cedar walk before the winter sets in. At the same time, I do not wonder you are anxious to see your sister. I wish for your sake she were here."

Christie shook her head.

"I am not better, and I don't know what to do. Effie couldn't very well come, even if I were to ask her; and it would only trouble them all to know that I am no better after all this time. Still, they would think-- if anything were to happen--" but she could not finish her sentence.

Mr Sherwood was much-moved. It seemed only natural to him that the poor young girl should shrink from the thought of a fatal termination of her sufferings, though he felt sure that, as far as any one could be prepared for the mysterious change, Christie was prepared for it. He longed to say something to soothe and comfort her, but no words came to his mind. Taking up the Bible, he read the very same portion again:

"'They that wait on the Lord shall be as Mount Zion, that cannot be removed;'" and then he added, softly:

"You are in good hands."

Christie's face brightened as she turned her bright, tearful eyes upon him.

"I know it, I am quite sure of it; and Effie too. I don't know why I should be anxious and troubled when I have so sure a promise. I am not strong. I suppose that makes a difference. But I _know_ all will come out right."

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

THE NIGHT GROWS DARKER.

But the thing which "might happen," and at the thought of which Christie shuddered and turned pale, was not what Mr Sherwood supposed it to be.

It was not the natural shrinking from death which all must feel when it is first impressed upon the mind not only that it is inevitable, but that it is near. Christie knew that she was very ill. She knew that she was not growing better, but rather worse. Yet it had never entered into her mind that possibly she was to die soon. The dread that was upon her was not the dread of death. I think if she had suddenly been told that she was going to die, the tidings might have startled her, because not antic.i.p.ated; but believing, as she did, that death could not separate her from her chief treasure, she would not have been afraid.

It was of something else that she was thinking, when she said to her kind friend that Effie would be shocked if it came to pa.s.s.

She had awakened one day from a momentary slumber into which she had fallen to hear some very terrible words spoken beside her. She thought she had been dreaming till she heard them repeated, and then she opened her eyes to see the kind faces of the attending physician and another looking at her.

"You have been asleep," said one of them, kindly and Christie thought again she must have been dreaming, for they spoke to her just as usual, praising her patience and bidding her take courage, for she would soon be well again. She must have been dreaming, she said to herself, twenty times that day. Nothing so terrible as the dread that was upon her could possibly be true; and yet the thought came back again and again.

"I am afraid she must lose it," she thought she heard one of them say.

"Yes; it looks like that now," as it seemed to her was the reply.

She could not forget the expression; and during the days and nights that followed, the remembrance of the words came back, sometimes as a dream, sometimes as a certainty. Had she been asleep, or was it true that she must be a cripple all her life? Must she henceforth be helpless and dependent, when her help was so much and in so many ways needed? Had her terrible sufferings been all in vain? Were all these restless days and nights only to have this sorrowful ending? How could she ever bear it? How could she ever tell Effie and the rest at home?

Many times in the day, when there was no one near, she determined to ask the doctor, that she might know the worst or have her fears set at rest, but she could not find the courage to do so. She did speak to the nurse, but she knew nothing about the matter, or said she did not, and quite laughed at her fancies, as she called them. But the fancies still lingered, and for a week or two the face she turned to meet her friend was grave and anxious enough.

He came almost every day now, he hardly knew why. Whatever the cause might be, he could not but see that his coming was always hailed with delight. Wherever the charm might be, whether in his voice or in the words he read, he could not tell; but he saw that his visits soothed her restlessness, and helped to banish the look of doubt and pain that too often saddened her face.

Sometimes he read the Bible, and stranger as he had for many years been to its sacred pages, he could not help yielding himself to the charm which the wonderful words he read there must ever have to a thoughtful mind. But the charm which the words had for his patient listener was something quite different from this. It was not the grandeur or sublimity of the style, or even the loftiness of the thought, that made her listen with such interest. She liked the simplest pa.s.sages best.

The simple narratives of the evangelists never lost their power to please her. Some word or promise, in which he saw little beauty, had often power to excite her deepest emotion, and he could not but wonder as he saw it.

He read other books too--little books left by visitors; very foolish little books he thought them often, and he could not but smile as he marked the interest with which she listened; but he never by smile or word intimated to her that he thought them trifling, at least he was never conscious of doing so. But he sometimes read in the grave, questioning eyes which Christie turned on him, a doubt whether that which was so real and so comforting to her was of any value to him.

He could not but confess to himself that, seen from Christie's point of view, the subjects discussed in them must seem of grave importance; and he never lost the feeling, as he sat by her bed, that they had a meaning to her that was hidden from him.

Very few words were spoken between them at such times. When Christie asked a question or made a remark, there was a clearness and simplicity in her way of speaking, a strength and freshness in what she said, that often surprised as well as interested him. He did not always understand her, and yet he could not believe that she was speaking of things too high for her.

The thought flashed upon his mind one day, as he sat by her bed. What if among these things which were revealed to her but hidden from him, lay the secret of the happiness he had been so long and so vainly pursuing? There are things hidden from the wise and prudent, and revealed only to babes--even to such little ones as this suffering child.

Looking up as the thought pa.s.sed through his mind, he met her eyes fixed wistfully upon him. She withdrew the gaze quickly, in some confusion, but in a moment looked up again.

"What is it, Christie? You looked as though you were afraid. I would read your thoughts. What grave question are you meditating now?"

Christie smiled.

"No, I was not afraid. I was wondering what could make you so kind to me. I need not have wondered, though. I know quite well why it is."

"Do you? Well, suppose you tell me what you mean by 'so kind,' and then why it is that I am 'so kind' to you. I should really like to know,"

said Mr Sherwood, laughing.

"I need not tell you the first," she said, with a smile. "You know that very well, and it would take me too long to tell all. I think the reason of your kindness is because G.o.d has put it into your heart to be so. It is one of the ways He takes to help me to bear my troubles."

The last words were spoken very gravely.

"Then it seems you don't think I am one of the good people who take delight in kind offices."

"I am sure no one could be kinder than you have been to me," she said, eagerly.

"But you don't think it is my way to be kind to people generally; I am not a philanthropist. Is that it?"

Christie looked puzzled and a little anxious. "Nay, you are not to look disconsolate about it," said Mr Sherwood, laughing. "It is quite true.

I am not at all like a benevolent person in a book. I was kind to you, as you call it, first to please my little cousin Gertrude, and then to please myself. So now you have the secret of it all."

"Oh, but it is true for all that that G.o.d put it into your heart to come so often," said Christie, with glistening eyes. "Your kindness gives me double pleasure when I think of it in that way."

"Well, it may be so," said Mr Sherwood, gravely; "but I don't think it is generally supposed that G.o.d chooses to comfort His little ones by means of such a person as I am."

Christie's eyes were fixed wistfully upon him again.

"Such as you!" she exclaimed, quite unconsciously, as Mr Sherwood thought, for she said no more just then.