Christie Redfern's Troubles Part 48

Coming as they did, the little tuft of wild flowers pleased Christie better than the fairest bouquet of hothouse exotics could have done.

Effie laughed.

"b.u.t.tercups are not great favourites with us at home," she said. "They generally grow best on poor, worn-out land."

"They are the very first I have seen this summer," said Christie, with moist eyes.

They were all silent a little while.

"We were just speaking about you when you came in," said she to Miss Gertrude.

"Were you? Well, I hope you dealt gently with my faults?" she said, blushing a little as she noticed the glance which pa.s.sed between the sisters.

"We had not got to your faults," said Christie.

"Well, you must be merciful when you do. See, Christie, I have got something else for you," she added, as she drew out a little book bound in blue and gold. "I thought of you when I read this. There is a good deal in the book you would not care about, but you will like this." And she read:

"Of all the thoughts of G.o.d that are Borne inward unto souls afar Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now, tell me if that any is, For gift or grace, surpa.s.sing this--? He giveth His beloved sleep."

And so on to the end. "Do you like it?" she asked.

"Yes," said Christie. But her eyes said much more than that.

"It reminded me of the time I found you sleeping among all the noises that were going on in the ward. There was talking and groaning and moving about, and you were quite unconscious of it all.

"'G.o.d makes a silence through them all,'"

she repeated:

"'And never doleful dream again Shall break his blessed slumbers, when He giveth His beloved sleep.'"

There was a silence of several minutes, and then Christie said:

"Miss Gertrude, when you came in I was telling Effie that I thought you had changed since I first knew you."

"And were you telling her that there was much need of a change?" said Miss Gertrude, with a playfulness a.s.sumed to hide the quick rush of feeling which the words called forth.

"Do you mind how we used to speak of the great change that all must meet before we can be happy or safe? You don't think about these things as you used to do. Miss Gertrude, has this change come to you?"

"I don't know, Christie. Sometimes I almost hope it has," said she.

But she could not restrain the tears. Effie saw them; Christie did not.

Her eyes were closed, and her hands were clasped as if in prayer.

"I was sure it would come," she said, softly. "I am very glad."

She did not speak again during Miss Gertrude's stay, and I need not repeat all that pa.s.sed between the young lady and Effie. There were some words spoken that neither will forget till their dying day.

Before she went away, Gertrude came and kissed Christie; and when she was gone Effie came and kissed her too, saying:

"You ought to be very happy, Christie, with all your trouble. G.o.d has been very good to you, in giving you a message to Miss Gertrude."

"I am very happy, Effie," answered she, softly. "I almost think I am beyond being troubled any more. It is coming very near now."

She lay still, with a smile on her face, till she fell into a quiet slumber; and as she sat watching her, Effie, amid all her sorrow, could not but rejoice at the thought of the blessed rest and peace that seemed coming so near now to her little sister.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

HOME AT LAST.

Yes, the time was drawing very near. Effie could no longer hide from herself that Christie was no stronger, but rather weaker every day. She did not suffer much pain, but now and then was feverish, and at such times she could get no rest. Then Effie moved and soothed and sang to her with patience inexhaustible. She would have given half her youthful strength to have revived that wasted form; and one day, as she was bathing her hands, she told her so.

Christie smiled, and shook her head.

"You will have better use for your strength than that, Effie. I am sure the water in the burn at home would cool my hands, if I could dip them in it. Oh, if I could just get out to the fields for one long summer day, I think I should be content to lie down here again for another six months! In the summer-time, when I used to think of the Nesbitts and the McIntyres in the sweet-smelling hay-fields, and of the bairns gathering berries in the woods, my heart was like to die within me. It is not so bad now since you came. No, Effie, I am quite content now."

Later in the day, she said, after a long silence:

"Effie, little Will will hardly mind that he had a sister Christie, when he grows up to be a man. I should like to have been at home once more, because of that. They will all forget me, I am afraid."

"Christie," said her sister, "why do you say they will forget you? Do you not think you will live to see them again?"

"Do you think so, Effie?" asked Christie, gravely.

Instead of answering her, Effie burst into tears, and laid her head down on her sister's pillow. Christie laid her arm over her neck, and said, softly:

"There is nothing to grieve so for, Effie. I am not afraid."

Effie's tears had been kept back so long, they must have free course now. It was in vain to try to stay them. But soon she raised herself up, and said:

"I didna mean to trouble you, Christie. I know I have no need to grieve for you. But, oh! I cannot help thinking you might have been spared longer if I had been more watchful--more faithful to my trust!"

"Effie," said Christie, "move me a little, and lie down beside me. I have something to say to you, and there can be no better time than now.

You are weary with your long watching. Rest beside me."

Her sister arranged the pillow and lay down beside her. Clasping her wasted arms about her neck, Christie said:

"Effie, you don't often say wrong or foolish things, but what you said just now was both wrong and foolish. You must never say it or think it any more. Have I not been in safe keeping, think you? Nay! do not grieve me by saying that again," she added, laying her hand upon her sister's lips, as she would have spoken. "It all seems so right and safe to me, I would not have anything changed now, except that I should like to see them all at home. And I dare say that will pa.s.s away as the end draws near. It will not be long now, Effie." She paused from exhaustion, only adding: "I am not afraid."

The much she had to say was not said that night. The sisters lay silently in each other's arms, and while Christie slumbered, Effie prayed as she had never prayed before, that she might be made submissive to the will of G.o.d in this great sorrow that was drawing nearer day by day.

After this they spoke much of the antic.i.p.ated parting, but never sadly any more. Effie's prayers were answered. G.o.d's grace did for her what, unaided, she never could have done for herself. It gave her power to watch the shadow of death drawing nearer and nearer, without shrinking from the sight. I do not mean that she felt no pain at the thought of going back to her home alone, or that she had quite ceased to blame herself for what she called her neglect of her suffering sister. Many a long struggle did she pa.s.s through during the hours when Christie slumbered. But she never again suffered a regretful word to pa.s.s her lips; she never for a moment let a cloud rest on her face when Christie's eyes were matching her. She had soothing words for the poor child's restless moments. If a doubt or fear came to disturb her quiet trust, she had words of cheer to whisper; and when--as oftenest happened--her peace was like a river, full and calm and deep, no murmurs, no repining, fell from the loving sister's lips to disturb its gentle flow.

And little by little, as the uneventful days glided by peace, and more than peace--grat.i.tude and loving praise--filled the heart of Christie's sister. What could she wish more for the child so loved than such quiet and happy waiting for the end of all trouble? A little while sooner or later, what did it matter? What could she wish more or better for any one she loved? It would ill become her to repine at her loss, so infinitely her sister's gain.

The discipline of these weeks in her sister's sick-room did very much for Effie. Ever since their mother's death, and more especially since their coming to Canada, a great deal had depended on her. Wise to plan and strong to execute, she had done what few young girls in her sphere could have done. Her energy had never flagged. She delighted to encounter and overcome difficulties; she was strong, prudent, and far-seeing, and she was fast acquiring the reputation, among her friends and neighbours, of a rare business woman.