Christie Redfern's Troubles Part 14

"She's weary with her journey--poor thing!" suggested Mrs McIntyre, kindly. "And she's a stranger here, besides--poor child!"

"A stranger!" Yes, Christie had just parted from Annie at the door of a large house in the next street, bravely enough; but it was all the poor girl could do now to restrain an outburst of tears.

"How old are you?" asked the lady, again.

Christie had just courage enough to tell her; but it was Mrs McIntyre who answered the next question.

"Are your parents living?"

"No--poor thing! She is an orphan. There is a large family of them.

She came down with her sister, hoping to get a place. The elder sister is trying to keep the little ones together."

Christie made a movement as if to silence the speaker. The lady looked at a gentleman who sat at a distant window seeming to read.

"What do you think?" she asked.

He rose, and walked in a leisurely manner down the room, nodding to Mrs McIntyre as he pa.s.sed. As he returned, he paused, and said something in an undertone to the lady. Christie caught the words.

"If anything was to happen to her, she would be on your hands. She seems quite without friends."

Christie was on her feet in a moment. Her chair was pushed back with a motion so sudden that the gentleman turned to look at her. She was anything but pale now. Her cheeks were crimson, and there was a light in her eyes that bade fair to be very soon quenched in tears.

"I am very sorry that I--" She could utter no more. Laying her hand on Mrs McIntyre's arm, she said, huskily, "Come." Her friend rose.

"Perhaps if you were to try her for a month--" she suggested.

But Christie shook her head.

"But where can you go? What can you do?" said Mrs McIntyre, in a low voice.

Where, indeed? Not to the house she had just seen Annie enter; she had no claim there. Not home again, that was not to be thought of. She turned a helpless glance to the persons who seemed to hold her destiny in their hands. The lady looked annoyed; the gentleman, who had observed the girl's excitement, asked:

"Were you ever at service before?"

"Oh, no!" said Mrs McIntyre, intending to serve Christie's cause. "The family looked forward to something very different; but misfortunes and the death--"

She stopped, intending that her pause should be more impressive than words.

Other questions followed--Could she read and write? Could she sew? Had she ever been in the city before?--till Christie's courage quite rose again. It ended in nothing, however, but a promise to let her know in a day or two what was decided.

In the silence that followed the closing of the streetdoor after them, Christie felt that Mrs McIntyre was not well pleased with the termination of the interview: and her first words proved it.

"You needna have been so sensitive," she said. "It will be a long time before you get a place where everything will be to your mind. You needna expect every lady to speak to you as your own sisters would. I doubt you'll hear no more from these people."

But she was a good-natured and kind-hearted woman; and a glance at Christie's miserable face stopped her.

"Never mind," she added; "there are plenty of folk in the town will be glad to get a well-brought-up girl like you to attend to their children.

But you must look cheerful, and no' take umbrage at trifles."

Christie could not answer her. So she walked along by her side, struggling, with a power which she felt was giving way rapidly, with the sobs that were scarcely suppressed. She struggled no longer than till she reached the little chamber where she and Annie had pa.s.sed the night.

The hours that she was suffered to remain there alone were pa.s.sed in such an agony of grief and home-sickness as the poor child never suffered from before. She quite exhausted herself at last; and when Mrs McIntyre came to call her to dinner, she found her in a troubled sleep.

"Poor child!" she said, as she stood looking at her, "I fear we must send her home again. She is not like to do or to get much good here."

But she darkened the room, and closed the door softly, and left her.

When Christie awoke the afternoon was nearly gone. Her first feeling was one of utter wretchedness; but her sleep had rested and refreshed her, and her courage revived after she had risen and washed her face and put her dress in order. When she was ready to go down, she paused for a moment, her hand resting on the k.n.o.b of the door.

"I might try it," she murmured; and she fell on her knees by the bedside. It was only a word or two she uttered:

"O G.o.d, give me courage and patience, and help me to do right."

Her tears fell fast for a moment; but her heart was lightened, and it was with a comparatively cheerful face that she presented herself in the little back parlour, where she found Mrs McIntyre taking tea with a friend.

"Oh, you are up, are you?" she said, kindly. "You looked so weary, I couldna bear to call you at dinnertime; but I kept your dinner for you.

Here, Barbara; bring in the covered dish." And she placed a seat for the girl between her and her friend.

Christie thanked her, and sat down, with an uncomfortable feeling that the friends had been discussing her before she had come in. And so it soon appeared. The conversation, which her entrance had interrupted, was soon resumed.

"You see, I don't well know what his business is," said the visitor.

"But, at any rate, he doesn't seem to have much to spend--at least in his family. His wife--poor lady!--has her own troubles. He's seldom at home; and she has been the most of the time, till this illness, without more than one servant. When she's better, I dare say she'll do the same again. In the meantime, I have promised to look for one that might suit. The one she has leaves to-morrow. My month's out too, then, and she's to let me go; though how she's to battle through, with that infant and all the other children, is more than I can tell."

Mrs McIntyre shook her head.

"She would never do for the place. She doesna look strong; and the house is large, you say?"

"Far larger than they need. I said that to her, one day. But she said something about keeping up a certain appearance. She's not one that a person can speak freely to, unless she likes. How old are you, my girl?" she suddenly asked, turning round to Christie.

"I was fourteen in June," she replied; and turning to Mrs McIntyre, she asked, "Is it a place for me?"

Mrs McIntyre looked doubtful.

"It's a place for some one; but I doubt it's too hard a place for you."

Christie sent a questioning look to the visitor, who said:

"Well, in some respects it's a hard place. There is plenty to do; but Mrs Lee is a real gentlewoman, mindful of others, and kind and pleasant-spoken. I should know; for I have sick-nursed her twice, besides being there, now and again, when the children have been ill."

"But think upon it. The only nurse, where there's an infant and four other children as near each other as they can well be. She's not fit for the like of that," said Mrs McIntyre.

"The eldest is but seven," said Mrs Greenly. "But, for that matter, Mrs Lee is nurse herself; and Nelly, the housemaid, is a kind-hearted girl. She might make a trial of it, anyway."

"We'll see what your sister says," said Mrs McIntyre to Christie.

"She'll be round on the Sabbath. Or maybe you might go there and see her before that time."

Mrs Greenly shook her head.

"But I doubt if I can wait for that. I must see the other girl this afternoon; and if she should suit the place there would be no more to be said. What do you think yourself, my girl?"

Christie had been too little accustomed to decide any matter for herself, to wish to decide this without first seeing her sister. So she only asked if Mrs Greenly pa.s.sed near the street where Annie lived.