Christie Redfern's Troubles Part 46

"Yes, I am sure of it. Seeing her, as I have, lying on that bed of pain, I have felt inclined rather to envy than to pity her. She has that for her own that a kingdom could not purchase--a peace that cannot be taken from her. I do not believe that even the sad necessity that awaits her will move her much now."

His first words had stilled Miss Gertrude quite, and soon she found voice to say:

"Not for herself, but for her sisters. I am afraid they will think we have been very cruel. But it will be well with Christie, whatever happens."

"Yes; it will be well with her, I do believe," said Mr Sherwood, gravely; and neither spoke again till they reached home.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING.

The shadows were lengthening one September afternoon, when Effie Redfern closed behind her the door of her school-room, and took her way along the shady road that led to the cottage which for more than two years had been her home. The air was mild and pleasant. The leaves on some of the trees were changing. Here a yellow birch and beech, and there a crimson maple betrayed the silent approach of winter. But the saddest of the autumn days had not come. Here and there lay bare, grey fields and stubble land, with a dreary wintry look; but the low pastures were green yet, and the gaudy autumn flowers lingered untouched along the fences and waysides.

It was a very lovely afternoon, and sending on the children, who were inclined to lag, Effie lingered behind to enjoy it. Her life was a very busy one. Except an occasional hour stolen from sleep, she had very little time she could call her own. Even now, her enjoyment of the fresh air and the fair scene was marred by a vague feeling that she ought to hasten home to the numberless duties awaiting her.

These years had told on Effie. She was hopeful and trustful still, but it was not quite so easy as it used to be to throw off her burden, and forget, in the enjoyment of present pleasure, past weariness and fears for the future. No burden she had yet been called to bear had bowed her down; and though she looked into the future with the certainty that these would grow heavier rather than lighter, the knowledge had no power to appal her. She was strong and cheerful, and contented with her lot.

But burdens borne cheerfully may still press heavily; and quite unconsciously to herself, Effie wore on her fair face some tokens of her labours and her cares. The gravity that used to settle on it during the anxious consideration of ways and means was habitual now. It pa.s.sed away when she spoke or smiled, but when her face settled to repose again, the grave look was on it still, and lay there like a shadow, as she pa.s.sed along the solitary road that afternoon. Her thoughts were not sad--at least, they were not at first sad. She had been considering various possibilities as to winter garments, and did not see her way quite clear to the end of her labours. But she had often been in that predicament before. There was nothing in it then to make her look particularly grave. She had become accustomed to more perplexing straits than little Will's jacket could possibly bring to her, and she soon put all thoughts of such cares away from her, saying to herself that she would not let the pleasure of her walk be spoiled by them.

So she sent her glance over the bare fields and changing woods and up into the clear sky, with a sense of release and enjoyment which only they can feel who have been kept close all day and for many days at a task which, though not uncongenial, is yet exhausting to strength and patience; but the shadow rested on her still. It deepened even as her eye came back from its wanderings, and fell on the dusty path she was treading.

Amid all the cares and anxieties of the summer--and what with the illness of the children and their narrow means they had not been few nor light--there had come and gone and come again a vague fear as to the welfare of her sister, Christie. Christie's first letter--the only one she had as yet received from her--did not alarm her much. She, poor child, had said so little that was discouraging about her own situation, and had spoken so hopefully of being out of the hospital soon, that they had never dreamed that anything very serious was the matter with her.

Of course, the fact of her having to go to the hospital at all gave them pain, but still it seemed the best thing she could have done in her circ.u.mstances, and they never doubted but all would soon be well.

As the weeks pa.s.sed on with no further tidings, Effie grew anxious at times, and wondered much that her sister did not write, but it never came into her mind that she was silent because that by writing she could only give them pain. They all thought she must be better--that possibly she had gone to the sea-side with the family, and that, in the bustle of departure, either she had not written, or her letter had been mislaid and never been sent.

But somehow, as Effie walked along that afternoon, the vague fear that had so often haunted her came back with a freshness that startled her.

She could not put it from her, as she might have tried to do had she been speaking to any one of it. The remembrance that it was the night of the mail, and that, if no letter came, she must endure another week of waiting, made her heart sicken with impatient longing. And yet, what could she do but wait and hope?

"And I must wait cheerfully too," she said to herself, as she drew near home and heard the voices of the children. "And after all, I need not fear for Christie. I do believe it will be well with her, whatever happens. Surely I can trust her in a Father's hands."

"How long you have been, Effie!" cried her little sister, Kate, as she made her appearance. "Mrs Nesbitt is here, and Nellie and I have made tea ready, and you'll need to hasten, for Mrs Nesbitt canna bide long; it is dark so soon now."

Effie's face brightened, as it always did at the sight of a friend, and she greeted Mrs Nesbitt very cheerfully.

"Mrs Nesbitt has a letter for you, Effie," said Aunt Elsie; "but you must make tea first. The bairns have it ready, and Mrs Nesbitt needs it after her walk."

Effie fancied that the letter Mrs Nesbitt had brought came from some one else than Christie, or she might not have a.s.sented with such seeming readiness to the proposal to have tea first. As it was, she hastened Nellie's nearly-completed arrangements, and seated herself behind the tray. Mrs Nesbitt looked graver than usual, she thought; and as she handed her her cup of tea, she said, quietly:

"You have had no bad news, I hope?"

"I have had no news," said Mrs Nesbitt. "Alexander told me there were two letters for you in the post, so I sent him for them, and I have come to you for the news."

As she spoke she laid the two letters on the table. One was from Christie, but she broke the seal of the other one first. It was very short, but before she had finished it her face was as colourless as the paper in her hand.

"Well, what is it?" said her aunt and Mrs Nesbitt, in the same breath.

She turned the page and read from the beginning:

"My dear Miss Redfern,--I have just returned from visiting your sister at the hospital. I do not think you can have gathered from her letters how ill she is, and I think you ought to know. I do not mean that she is dangerously ill, but she has been lying there a long time; and if you can possibly come to her, I am sure the sight of you would do her more good than anything else in the world. Christie does not know that I am writing. I think she has not told you how ill she is, for fear of making you unhappy; and now she is troubled lest anything should happen, and her friends be quite unprepared for it. Not that you must think anything is going to happen,--but come if you can.

"My dear Miss Redfern, I hope you will not think me impertinent, but father wishes me to say to you that we all beg you will let no consideration of expense prevent your coming. It will be such a comfort to Christie to have you here."

There was a postscript, saying that the poor girl had been in the hospital since the end of April.

"The end of April!" echoed Aunt Elsie and Mrs Nesbitt at once. Effie said nothing, but her hands trembled very much as she opened the other letter. I need not copy Christie's letter, we already know all she had to tell. Effie's voice failed her more than once as she read it.

Fearing to make them unhappy at home, yet desiring to have them prepared for whatever might happen to her, the letter had cost Christie a great deal of anxious thought. One thing was plain enough to all; she was very ill and a little despondent, and longed above all things to see Effie and get home again. The elder sister having read it all, laid it down without speaking.

"Effie, my dear," said Aunt Elsie, "you will need to go."

"Yes; I must go. How I could have contented myself all this time, knowing she might be ill, I am sure I cannot tell. My poor child!"

Mrs Nesbitt looked at her anxiously, as she said: "My dear bairn, you have nothing to reproach yourself with. You have had a very anxious summer, what with one care and another."

Effie rose with a gesture of impatience, but sat down again without speaking. She blamed herself severely; but what was the use of speaking about it now? She took up Christie's letter and read again the last sentence.

"It grieves me to add to your burdens, Effie. I hoped to be able to lighten them, rather. But such is not G.o.d's will, and He sees what is best for us all. I do so long to see you again--to get home. But I must have patience."

"Have patience!" she repeated aloud. "Oh, poor child! To think of her lying there all these weary months! How can I ever forgive myself!"

She rose from the table hastily. Oh, how glad she would have been to go to her that very moment. But she could not, nor the next day either.

There were many things to be considered. They were too dependent on her school to permit her to give it up at once. Some one must be found to take her place during her absence. Sarah must be sent for at the neighbouring village, where she had been staying for the last month.

The children and Aunt Elsie must not be left alone. There were other arrangements to be made, too, and two days pa.s.sed before Effie was ready to go.

She saw Mrs Nesbitt again before she went, and her kind old friend said to her some of the things she had meant to say that night when the letters were read. She was able to hear them now. They would have done no good in the first moments of her sorrow, as Mrs Nesbitt very well knew.

"Effie, my bairn," said she, gravely, "you have trouble enough to bear without needlessly adding to it by blaming yourself when you ought not.

Even if you had known all, you could not have gone to your sister, except in the sorest need. Has there been a single day when you could have been easily spared? And you could have done little for her, I dare say, poor la.s.sie. And you may be sure the Lord has been caring for her all this time. He has not forgotten her."

"She says that in her letter many times," said Effie.

"My dear, there is a bright side to this dark cloud, you may be sure.

Whichever way this trouble ends, it will end well for this precious lamb of Christ's fold. And you are not to go to her in a repining spirit, as though, if you had but known, you could have done other and better for her than the Lord has been doing. We cannot see the end from the beginning, and we must trust the Lord both in the light and in the darkness."

Effie made no answer for a moment. She then said, in a low voice:

"But I never felt sure that it was right for her to go from home. She never was strong."

"But you were not sorry, when you saw her in the winter, that she had gone. You mind you told me how much she had improved?"

"Yes; if I had only brought her home with me then. She must have been worse than I thought. And it must seem to her so neglectful in us to leave her so all the summer."

"My dear la.s.sie," said Mrs Nesbitt, gravely, "it is in vain to go back to that now. It has been all ordered, and it has been ordered for good, too. The Lord has many ways of doing things; and if He has taken this way of quickly ripening your little sister for heaven, why should it grieve us?"

"But," said Effie, eagerly, "you did not gather from the letter that she was so very ill? Miss Gertrude said not dangerously, and oh, I cannot but think she will be better when we get her home again."

"That will be just as G.o.d wills. But what I want to say is this. You must go cheerfully to her. If, by all this, G.o.d has been preparing her for His presence, you must not let a shadow fall on her last days. It is a wonderful thing to be permitted to walk to the rivers brink with one whom G.o.d has called to go over--an honour and blessing greatly to be coveted; and you must not lose the blessing it may be to you, by giving way to a murmuring spirit. Not that I am afraid for you," she added, laying her hand on Effie's arm. "All will be well; for I do believe you, and your sister too, are among those whom G.o.d will keep from all that can really harm. Don't vex yourself with trying to make plain things which He has hidden. Trust all to Him, and nothing can go far wrong with you then."