Christie Redfern's Troubles Part 20

"My mother is dead too," said Mrs Lee, with a sigh. "I wonder if she would have died if I had not left her? I was but a child--only sixteen--and we never can tell beforehand how things are to turn out.

If I had only known! But, oh me! why do I vex myself with all these things to-night? It is too late now!--too late now!"

Christie was alarmed at her evident excitement. Laying her gently down on her pillow, and smoothing her hair, she said:

"If you please, ma'am, Mrs Greenly said I was not to speak to you, and that you must be kept quiet."

With a strange sound between a sob and a laugh, she said:

"Ah, yes! It is easy for her to say, 'Keep quiet;' but all her good nursing does not reach my troubles. Oh, me; how weary I am! My mother is dead, and I have no sister; and my brothers have quite forgotten me.

But if we could only be sure that what your sister says is true, about the Friend that cares for us, and who will bring us safe through all troubles!"

"It's not Effie that says it," said Christie, eagerly, "It's in the Bible; and you may be quite sure it's true."

"I wouldn't care so much for myself; but these poor little children who have no one but me, and I so weak and helpless. My heart fails when I think of all they may have to bear. I suppose my mother had just such anxious thoughts about me. Oh, if she had known all! but she could not have helped me here."

"But the verse says, 'A very present help in trouble,'" said Christie, softly. "That's one difference between a heavenly Friend and all earthly friends."

"Yes," said Mrs Lee, languidly. Christie continued:

"The Bible says, too, 'The Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon Him, to all that call upon Him in truth.' And in another place, 'Wait on the Lord: be of good courage, and He shall strengthen thy heart.'"

"Yes; if, as you say, one could be sure that all these words were for us," said Mrs Lee. Christie faltered a little; but by and by she said:

"Well, the trust, like all other blessings, comes from Him. We can but ask Him for it. At any rate, it is to those who are in trouble that He promises help. It is to those who labour and are heavy-laden that Christ has promised rest."

"Rest!" echoed Mrs Lee, wearily. "Oh for rest!"

"Yes; and He says He will give it to those who come to Him," continued Christie. "We ought not to doubt Him. He has said, in twenty places, that He will hear prayer."

"I have a prayer-book. My mother gave it to me. But I have neglected it sadly."

"But the New Testament and the Psalms are full of promises to hear prayer." And Christie repeated many verses as they came to her mind:

"_Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out_.

"_Whatever ye ask in My name, it shall be done unto you_.

"_Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find_.

"_If ye, then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your Father in heaven give His Holy Spirit unto those who ask Him_.

"And the Psalm says:--

"And in the day of trouble great See that thou call on Me; I will deliver thee, and thou My name shalt glorify."

"Can't you sing?" asked Mrs Lee, coaxingly.

It was a long time before Christie could conquer her shyness so as to sing even with the children, but she had no thought of shyness now. She began the twentieth, and then the twenty-third Psalm, singing them to old Scotch tunes--rippling notes of strange, wild melody, like what we seldom hear in our churches nowadays. The child's voice had a clear, silvery sweetness, melting away in tender cadences; and breathing words suited to such times of need as come to all, whatever else may pa.s.s them by, it did more than soothe Mrs Lee, it comforted her.

"Yea, though I walk through Death's dark vale, Yet will I fear no ill; For Thou art with me, and Thy rod And staff me comfort still."

And so she sang on, her voice growing softer and lower, till Mrs Lee fell asleep, and slept as she had not slept before for months, calmly as a child; and Christie stood beside her, listening to her gentle breathing, and saying to herself:

"I wonder if I have done her any good?"

Then she went back to her seat upon the stairs, and before she had sat there long in the darkness the blessed knowledge came to her that, whether she had done any good or not, she had gained much within the last two hours. In trying to comfort another she had herself been comforted.

"I can ask for the best blessing that G.o.d has to give, and keep asking till I get it. Why should I not?" And no bitterness was mingled with her tears, though they still fell fast. "I will try and do right, and trust, and have patience, and G.o.d will guide me, I know He will."

And so she sat in the dark, sometimes slumbering, sometimes thinking, till the baby's whimpering cry summoned her back to her usual care.

The next week was better in all respects than the last. Letty grew well rapidly, and her mother improved a little day by day. The doctor, looking now and then into the attic-nursery, gave them hope at last that the little ones might escape the fever for this time; and Christie's thoughts began to turn homeward again. But not so anxiously as before.

The pain of parting from the children would be harder now. And during these days she began to feel a strange yearning tenderness for the poor young mother, scarcely less helpless and in need of care than they. It had come to be quite the regular thing now for Mrs Greenly to take an hour's rest in the attic-nursery when the children had fallen asleep, while Christie took her place in Mrs Lee's room.

New and wonderful were the glimpses which those twilight hours gave to Christie. She found that Mrs Lee, sitting in her drawing-room, or even in the nursery, giving directions about the care of the children, was a very different person from Mrs Lee lying in bed feverish or exhausted, looking back over the days of her childhood, or forward to a future that was anything but hopeful to her disenchanted eyes. Naturally reserved, the lady had made but few acquaintances in the city, and had not one intimate friend; and now, when weak and weary and desponding, it was a relief to her to speak to some one of the times and places and events over which memory had brooded in silence for so many years. She never dreamed what glimpses of her heart she was giving to her little nurse.

She only saw the sympathy expressed by Christie's grave face or eager gesture; and she talked to her, sometimes regretfully enough, about her mother and her brothers and her childish days. Yet, sad as those memories were, they were scarcely so sad as the thoughts she sent out into the future. She did not often speak her fears; but her silence and her frequent sighs were to Christie more eloquent than words.

Christie rarely spoke at such times as these--never, except when a question was asked; and then her reply was generally prefaced with, "I have heard my father say," or, "Effie once told me," or, "I heard John Nesbitt saying." Ignorant as she knew herself to be on the most important of all subjects, she was yet far wiser than her mistress.

Some of Christie's simple remarks and suggestions made an impression on her heart that wiser and more direct teachings might have failed to make.

As for Christie, in her sympathy for Mrs Lee's troubles, she almost forgot her own. In striving to relieve her from all anxiety about the children, she was ready to forget even her own weariness; and in the knowledge that she was doing some good to them all, she ceased to regret that Annie had gone home without her.

CHAPTER NINE.

LIGHT IN DARKNESS.

The week pa.s.sed. Sunday morning came; and out of a broken, uneasy slumber, Christie was awakened by the fall of rain-drops on the window.

In the midst of the trouble and turmoil of the week she had striven to be patient; but through it all she had looked forward to the two hours'

respite of the Sabbath, and now it seemed to her that she could not be denied. Turning her aching eyes from the light, she did not, for a moment or two, try to restrain her tears. But she could not indulge herself long, if she had been ever so much inclined. For soon arose the clamour of childish voices, that must be stilled. So Christie rose, and bathed her hot eyes, and strove to think that, after all, the clouds were not so very thick, and they might break away in time for her to go.

"At any rate, there is no good in being vexed about it," she said to herself. "I must try and be content at home, if I canna go."

It was an easier matter to content herself than to her first waking thought seemed possible. She was soon busy with the little ones, quieting their noise as she washed and dressed them, partly for little Harry's sake, and partly because it was the Sabbath-day. So earnest was she in all this that she had no time to think of her disappointment till the boys were down-stairs at breakfast with their mother. Then little Harry seemed feverish and fretful and "ill to do with," as Mrs Greenly, who visited the attic-nursery with the baby in her arms, declared.

Christie strove to soothe her fretful pet, and took him in her arms to carry him down-stairs. A gleam of sunshine met her on the way.

"It is going to be fine weather, after all," she said to Nurse Greenly, turning round on the first landing.

But nurse seemed inclined this morning to look on the dark side of things, and shook her head.

"I'm not so sure of that," said she. "That's but a single gleam; and I dare say the sky is black enough, if we could see it. And hearken, child, to the wind! The streets will be in a puddle; and with those pains in your ankles you'll never, surely, think of going out to-day?"

Christie's face clouded again; and so did the sky, for the gleam of sunshine vanished.

"I should like to go, indeed," said she; "and it's only when I am very tired that my ankles pain me."

"Tired!" repeated nurse. "Yes, and no wonder; and yet you will persist in carrying that great boy, who is far better able to carry himself. I don't wonder that you want to go even to the church, to be out of the reach of trouble for a while."