Christie Redfern's Troubles Part 45

"I was writing to Effie to-day, and I tried to tell her how good you have been to me. But I could not. I could never make her understand it, I know. She would need to see it for herself."

"My poor child," said Mr Sherwood, smiling, "do you know you are talking foolishly? and that is a thing you seldom do. You are making a great deal out of a very little matter. The chances are that you do quite as much good to me as I shall ever do to you."

"Oh, I wish I could think so! If I could get my wish for you--" She paused suddenly.

"Well, what would you wish for me?" asked Mr Sherwood, still smiling at her eagerness. "I dare say I should have no more trouble in this world if you could have your wish."

Christie shook her head.

"I don't think I ever wished that for you, and yet I have, too, in a way; for if that which I ask for you every day were to come to pa.s.s, you _might_ have trouble, but it would never seem like trouble to you any more."

"Well, I suppose that would answer every purpose of not having any more trouble, and you are very kind to wish it. But you say '_ask_'; so I suppose it is something which is in the giving of your Friend above?"

"Yes," said Christie, softly; and then there was a pause.

"And what is it? Is it the 'new heart and the right spirit' we were reading about the other day? That seems to be the very best blessing that one can have, in your opinion. And do you really think I shall ever get it?"

"I hope you will," she answered, eagerly. "I believe you will, if you only ask for it."

"Ah, well, I don't know. I have a fancy that your asking will be more to the purpose than mine."

"I shall never forget to ask it for you. I have never forgotten it since--" she hesitated.

"Since when?" asked Mr Sherwood.

"Do you remember the day you came into the cedar walk, when I was telling little Claude the story of the blind man, and what you said to me that day? I don't think I have ever forgotten since to pray the blind man's prayer for you."

Mr Sherwood was greatly surprised and touched. That was long ago. He had been far-away since then. Once or twice, perhaps, in connection with the remembrance of his little cousins, the thought of their kind, quiet nurse had come back to him. And yet she had never in all that time forgotten to ask for him what seemed to her to be the best of all blessings.

"And do you do that for all your friends?" he said. "How came you to think of doing this for me?"

"You did not seem very happy, I thought. You seemed like one searching for something that you could not find; and so I asked that your eyes might be opened."

"Well, some day you must tell me how your eyes were opened, and perhaps that may help me."

"Oh, no. I have nothing to tell, only I was very miserable often and discontented and troublesome. Afterwards it was all changed, and I was at peace."

She lay quite still, as if she were weary, and when Mr Sherwood spoke again it was only to say good-bye.

But afterwards, at different times, she told him of the great happiness that had come to her through the grace of G.o.d, and he listened with an interest which sometimes increased to wonder. He mused on the simple recitals of the young girl with an earnestness which he could not explain to himself, and read the chapters which she pointed out as having done her good, partly for the pleasure of talking them over with her, and partly, too, because he began to see in G.o.d's Word what he had never seen in it before.

But I had no thought of saying all this about Mr Sherwood. It was of the sad, yet happy days that Christie pa.s.sed in the hospital that I wished to write, and they were drawing to a close now. But let me say just one word more about her friend. It all came to pa.s.s as Christie had been sure it would. The day came when, earnestly as blind Bartimeus, he prayed, 'Lord, that mine eyes may be opened!' And He who had compa.s.sion on the wayside beggar had compa.s.sion on him, and called him out of darkness into His marvellous light. I dare say she knows the glad tidings now. If she does not, she will know them soon, on the happy day when the friends shall meet "on the other side of the river."

One day when Mr Sherwood came, he brought Gertrude with him. She had been prepared to find Christie very ill, but she had no thought of finding her so greatly changed. She was scarcely able to restrain her emotion at the sight of the pale, suffering face that told so sad a tale, and she was so much excited that Mr Sherwood did not like to go away and leave them together, as he had at first meant to do. She tried to say how grieved she was to see Christie so ill, but when she began to count how many months she had been lying there, her voice suddenly failed her.

"Yes; it is a long time," Christie faintly said. But she thought herself no worse for a few days past. She had suffered much less with her knee of late, and she was beginning to hope that the worst was pa.s.sed. She did not say much more about herself, except in telling how kind Mr Sherwood had been to her; but she had a great many questions to ask about the little boys, especially Claude, and about Gertrude herself, and all that she had been doing since they parted.

What a contrast they presented, these two young girls. There stood the one, bright and strong, possessing all that we are wont to covet for those we love--health and beauty, home and friends, and a fair prospect of a long and happy life. Sick and sorrowful and alone lay the other, her life silently ebbing away, her hold on the world and all it has to give slowly but surely loosening. Yet, in the new light which was beginning to dawn upon him, Mr Sherwood caught a glimpse of a contrast more striking still. On the couch before him lay a little suffering form, wasted and weary, soon to be hidden from the light, little to be mourned, quickly to be forgotten. But it soon vanished as from that lowly cot there rose before his gaze a spirit crowned and radiant and immortal.

Which was to be pitied? which to be envied? Before one lay life and its struggles, its trials and its temptations. With the other, these were past. A step more and the river is pa.s.sed, and beyond lies a world of endless glory and bliss.

They did not linger very long. Promising to bring her back soon, Mr Sherwood hurried Gertrude away.

"Cousin Charles," said she, eagerly, as they went down the long pa.s.sage together, "we must take her away from this place. Nay, don't shake your head. Mother will listen to what you say, and she will be willing to do much for one who did so much for her little boy. Only think of her lying all these months in that dreary room! Did you not hear her say she had not seen a flower growing all the summer? Oh, Cousin Charles, you will surely help me to persuade mother?"

"My dear," said Mr Sherwood, gravely, "I fear she is not well enough to be moved. I do not think the physicians would consent to let her be taken away."

"But are they making her better? I am sure the fresh air of the country would do her more good than all their medicines. Oh, such a suffering face! And her hands, Cousin Charles--did you notice her hands? I am afraid I have come too late. But she will surely grow better again when she is taken away from this place. It would kill any one to lie there long in that great room among all those poor suffering creatures. If I could only get her away! It would not cost much to take her, with a nurse, to some quiet place, if we could not have her at the house. I shall have money of my own some time. Cousin Charles, will not you speak to mother for me?" She was growing very eager and excited.

"Hush!" he said, gently. "Nothing but the impracticability of it could have prevented me from removing her to her own home, for which she has been pining so sadly. Have patience, and we will try what can be done.

We will speak to the doctor about it."

The physician was, fortunately, disengaged, and the subject of Christie's removal suggested to him. But he objected to it more decidedly now than he had when Mr Sherwood had spoken of it some time before. It was doubtful whether in her present weak state she could bear removal, even if she could be as well cared for elsewhere. It was becoming doubtful whether her const.i.tution could hold out much longer.

Indeed, it could hardly be said to be doubtful. There was just one chance for her, he said; and then he spoke low, as though he did not wish Miss Gertrude to hear--but she did.

"You do not mean that her knee is never to be well again?" she asked, with a shudder.

"We have for some time feared so," said the doctor. "Within a day or two symptoms have appeared which seem to indicate an absolute and speedy necessity for amputation. Poor little thing! It is very sad for her, of course."

"Does she know it?" asked Miss Gertrude, steadying her voice with a great effort.

"I think she is not altogether unprepared for it. She must know that she is not getting better, and I fancy she must suspect the necessity from something she once said to the nurse. Poor girl! she seems to grieve quite as much on account of her friends as on her own."

"Have they been informed of this--of the possible result of her illness?" asked Mr Sherwood.

"She has written to them several times during the summer, I believe.

They seem to be very poor people, living at a distance--quite unable to do anything for her."

They were soon on their way to meet Mrs Seaton, who had made an appointment with them, but Miss Gertrude was quite overcome by what she had seen and heard.

"Poor Christie! To think that all these weary months of waiting must end thus! I cannot help thinking we have been to blame."

"My child, why should you say so?"

"To think of it coming to this with her, and her friends not knowing it!

Her sister never would have left her here all this time, if she had thought her in danger. She ought to know at once."

"Yes; they must be told at once," said Mr Sherwood. "But I fancy, from what the doctor said, they can't do much for her; and from the poor little thing herself I have gathered that the only one who could come to her is her elder sister, on whom the rest seem to be quite dependent."

"But she must come, too," said Gertrude, eagerly. "That is Effie.

There is no one in all the world like Effie, Christie thinks. Oh, Cousin Charles, they have not always been poor. And they have suffered so much--and they love each other so dearly!"

"Gertrude, my child, there is a bright side even to this sad picture.

Do you think that the suffering little creature, lying there all these months, has been altogether unhappy?"

Gertrude struggled with her tears, and said:

"She has the true secret of happiness."