Christie Redfern's Troubles Part 24

"I'm no' sure. But then--unless it's Aunt Elsie's gown--there's nothing dear. They are just prints; the frocks and the other things are all useful, except perhaps the playthings for the bairns; and they are useful too, for things that give pleasure have a use, I am sure."

"It canna be doubted," said her friend, laughing.

Christie's face grew a little grave, after a rather lengthened examination of the pieces left in her purse.

"There is just one other thing; but I fear I ought not to have left it to the last. It's for blind Alice. I have thought about it so long.

It's not very far, we might ask the price of it, anyway."

It was true, the place was not very far; but it was a shop of greater pretensions than any they had entered yet. Christie had set her heart on a musical-box, which she knew would be a treasure to the blind child.

But the cost! It was altogether beyond her means, even if she were to stay another month.

The disappointment was very great.

"Allie must have something that she can hear, you ken; and I had no thought that it would be so dear."

"Why not send her a bird--a real canary?" said John, as they made a pause at a low window in a narrow street, where a great variety of cages were hanging.

"A bird?" repeated Christie. "I never thought of that. Are they very dear?"

"We can ask," said John; and as Christie stood admiring the gay plumage of some strange bird, he put the question to the person in waiting.

Christie did not hear his answer. John did not mean that she should.

"Could you spare two dollars, Christie?" said he.

"Two dollars!" she repeated. It was the wages of half a month.

"I have cheaper ones," said the man, "but he is the best singer I have had for a long time. Or maybe you would like a pair?"

"A pair!" thought Christie to herself. If she could manage to get one she would be content! As if to verify the words of his owner, the bird, after hopping quickly from perch to perch, poured forth such a flood of melody as Christie had never heard from a bird's throat before.

"Oh, how sweet!" exclaimed she. "To think of little Allie having music like that all the winter long! But how can you carry it, John?"

Oh, John could carry it easily--no fear; and touched by Christie's eager delight, or by some more powerful cause, the man let the cage go with the bird.

So that was settled.

"We're done now, I suppose," said Christie, with a sigh, as they pa.s.sed along the shady side of the street. The excitement of pleasure was pa.s.sing out of her face; and more than ever before, since the first glimpse he got of it, did John Nesbitt realise what a pale, weary little face it was.

"I wish you were going home with me, Christie!"

"I wish I was, indeed! I wish I had spoken to Mrs Lee before! But I couldna leave her, John, till she got some one else, she is so delicate now. Sometimes I think I never could get courage to leave her at all, if she were to ask me to stay."

"Ay, la.s.s; but there's more to be said about that. They'll think at home that you're forgetting them, if I tell them what you say."

Christie laughed.

"I'm not afraid. I don't think it would be right to leave her now; and seeing you has given me courage for another month at least. You can tell Effie that."

"I shall have two or three things to tell her besides that," said John, looking down on her with the grave smile which she liked so much to see.

"I shall be sorry to tell her how pale and ill you look," he added, his face growing grave as he looked.

"Oh, that's only because I am tired just now; and besides, I was always 'a pale-faced thing,' as Aunt Elsie used to say. You are not to vex Effie by making her think that I am not well," she said, eagerly. "I have not been used to walking far, lately, and I get tired very soon."

They were entering the large square at the moment, and John said:

"Can we go in there among the trees? I see seats there. Let us sit down and rest a while."

"Oh, yes! I have been here before. Nothing reminds me so much of home as the flickering of these shadows--not even the leaves themselves. And how sweet the flowers are! Do you ken, John, I didna see the leaves this year till they were full-grown? I can hardly believe that the spring has come and gone again."

John Nesbitt was looking and listening, and all the time he was considering something very earnestly. He had not many dollars at his disposal, and the few he had he was not inclined to part with but for value received. He was saying to himself, at the moment, that if it should be decided that he was qualified for the work to which he had set himself apart, he should need them all, and more too, before his course of study should be finished. He had a vision, too, of a set of goodly volumes, bound in calf, on which his heart had been set a year or more.

Untouched in his pocket-book lay the sum he had long ago set apart for their purchase; and there was very little in it besides.

"There must be a limit to the pleasure a man gives himself. I can only choose between them," said the prudent John to himself. To Christie he said: "Have you ever been round the mountain? Would you like to go to-day?"

"Never but once--in the winter-time; but I should like to go, dearly."

And the eager, wistful look in the eyes that through all the pleasant spring-time had seen no budding thing, won the day.

"Well, I have never been round it either. So let us take one of these carriages that seem so plenty here, and go together. It is well worth the trouble, I have heard."

Christie's first look was one of unmixed delight, but soon it changed into one a little doubtful. She did not like to speak her thoughts; but in a little while she said, half smiling:

"Are you no' afraid that they may think you extravagant at home?"

"Indeed, no! At least, I'm sure Effie wouldna, if she saw your face at this moment. It was well we had all those things sent home. Come."

And like a foolish fellow, he determined not to make a bargain for the carriage while the prudent little Christie was within hearing, and so had, I dare say, double to pay when he dismissed it. But the pleasure was not spoiled, for all that.

"How pleasant it is!" said Christie, as the absence of street-noises and the fresher breeze upon her cheek told her that they were leaving the city behind them. Her short-sighted eyes could not take in the view that charmed John so much. But she did not know how it could be more pleasant than the fresh air and the gentle motion of the carriage made it to her; and so she said, when at last she started up and looked about her:

"Is not this the way to the cemetery? Oh, let us go there a little while."

And so they did. The carriage was dismissed. They were to stay a long time--as long as they liked; and then they could walk home, or perhaps they might get the chance of a returning carriage. At any rate, they would not be hurried.

How lovely the place looked to Christie's unaccustomed eyes! They were not alone. There were groups here and there among the graves--some of them mourners, as their dress showed, others enjoying the loveliness of the place, untroubled by any painful remembrance of the loved and lost.

Slowly they wandered up and down, making long pauses in shady places, lingering over the graves of little children which loving hands had adorned. Christie wandered over the little nameless graves, longing to find where her dear ones lay.

"How beautiful it is! It is a very sweet resting-place," she said to herself, many times.

Yes, it was a very lovely spot. A strange feeling of awe stole over Christie's spirit as she gazed around on the silent city. As far as the eye could reach it extended. Among the trees and on the sunny hill-sides rose many a stately monument of granite and marble, with, oh, so many a nameless grave between! Close at their feet lay a large unenclosed s.p.a.ce, where the graves lay close together, in long, irregular lines--men and women and little children--with not a mark to tell who slumbered beneath. It was probably the burial-place of strangers, or of those who died in the hospitals. To Christie it had a very dreary and forsaken look. She shuddered as she gazed on the place.

"A friend's grave could never be found among so many," said she. "See!

there are a few with a bit of board, and a name written on it; but most of them have no mark. I would far rather be laid in our own kirk-yard at home--though that is a dreary place, too, when the sun doesna shine."

They moved on together; and in a place which was half in the sunshine and half in the shade, they sat down. In a little while the pleasant influence of the scene chased the dreariness from Christie's thoughts, and she looked about with eyes that did not seem able to satisfy themselves with its beauty.

"How lovely it is here!" she repeated. "How green and fresh everything is! The very gra.s.s seems beautiful!" And she caressed with her hand the smooth turf on which they were seated.

"It's a wonder to me how people can choose to live in the midst of a town, with nothing to see that's bonny but a strip of blue sky now and then."