Christie Redfern's Troubles Part 49

It is just possible that, as the years pa.s.sed, she might have acquired some of the unpleasing qualities so apt to become the characteristic of the woman who has no one to come between her and the cares of business or the shifts and difficulties incident to the providing for a family whose means are limited. Coming in contact, as she had to do, with a world not always mindful of the claims of others, she found it necessary to stand her ground and hold her own with a firmness that might seem hardly compatible with gentleness. Her position, too, as the teacher of a school--the queen of a little realm where her word was law--tended to cultivate in her strength and firmness of character rather than the more womanly qualities. It is doubtful whether, without the sweet and solemn break in the routine of her life which these months in her sister's sick-room made, she would ever have grown into the woman she afterwards became. This long and patient waiting for G.o.d's messenger gave her the time for thought which her busy life denied her.

Now and then, during the quiet talks in which, during her more comfortable hours, they could still indulge, there was revealed to Effie all the way by which G.o.d had led her sister; at the same time there was revealed all that He had permitted her to do for His glory, and at this she was greatly moved. She had only been a little servant-maid, plain and humble and obscure. There was nothing to distinguish her in the eyes of those who saw her from day to day. Yet G.o.d had greatly honoured her. He had made her a messenger of grace to one, to two--perhaps to more. When that little, worn-out frame was laid aside, it might be, thought Effie, that the immortal spirit, crowned and radiant, should stand nearer to the throne than some who were held in honour by the wise and the good of this world.

Sitting there, listening and musing, Effie saw, more clearly than she ever could have seen in the bustle of her busy life, how infinitely desirable it is to be permitted to do G.o.d's work in the world. Those were days never to be forgotten by her. She grew thin and wan with confinement and watching, but as the time drew near when her present care should cease and she should go home again, her face wore a look of peace beautiful to see.

"Effie," said Christie one day, after she had been silently watching her a little while, "you are more willing that I should go now, I think?"

Effie started.

"I shall be willing when the time comes, my dear sister, I do not doubt," she said, with lips that smiled, though they quivered too. "I cannot help being willing, and glad, for your sake."

"And you ought to be glad for your sake too," said Christie. "You will have one less to care for, to be anxious about, Effie, and I shall be safe with our dear father and mother in the better world. I never could have helped you much, dear, though I would have liked to do so. I never should have been very strong, I dare say, and--I might have been a burden."

"But if you had been running about in the fields with the bairns all this time, who knows but you would have been as strong as any of them?"

said Effie, sadly.

But Christie shook her head.

"No; I have had nothing to harm me. And sometimes I used to think if I had stayed at home I might have fallen back into my old fretful ways, and so have been a vexation to myself and to Aunt Elsie; and to you even, Effie, though you never used to be vexed with me."

"No, Christie, that could never have happened. G.o.d is faithful, and with His grace, all would have been well with you. There would have been no more such sad days for you."

"No such day as that when you came home with the book-man and gave me my Bible," said Christie, smiling, "I wonder why I always mind that day so well? I suppose because it was the beginning of it all."

Effie did not ask, "The beginning of what?" She knew well that she meant the beginning of the new life which G.o.d, by His Word and Spirit, had wrought in her heart. Soon Christie added:

"I wouldn't have anything changed now. It has all happened just in the best way; and this quiet time will do you good too, dear."

"I pray G.o.d it may!" said Effie, letting both tears and kisses fall upon her sister's face.

"And you must tell Annie and Sarah and the bairns that they must be sure to come to us--our father and mother and me, and to Jesus--the Mediator--of the new covenant," she slowly said; and overcome with weariness, she sank into a quiet sleep.

Christie grew weaker every day. She did not suffer much, and slept most of the time. Sometimes she was feverish and restless, and then Effie used to fancy that her mind wandered. At such times she would tell of things that happened long ago, and speak to Effie as she might have spoken to her mother during her childish illnesses, begging to be taken into her arms and rocked to sleep.

But almost always she knew her sister, even when she had forgotten where she was. Once she said there was just one place in the world where she could rest, and begged to be laid on the sofa in Mrs Nesbitt's parlour at home. Often she begged her to let her dip her hands in the burn to cool them, or to take her where it was pleasant and cool, under the shadow of the birch-tree in the pasture at home. But a single word from Effie was always enough to soothe her, and to call up the loving smile.

Christmas came and went, and the last day of the old year found her still waiting, but with many a token that the close was drawing near.

Gertrude came that day, and lingered long beside her, awed by the strange mysterious change that was beginning to show itself on her face.

Christie did not notice her as she came in, and even Effie only silently held out her hand to her as she drew near.

"She will never speak again," said the nurse, who had been watching her for several minutes.

All pain, all restlessness, seemed past. Effie, bending over her, could only now and then moisten her parched lips and wipe the damp from her forehead. Poor Effie! she saw the hour was at hand, but she was very calm. "She has not spoken since daybreak," she said, softly. "I am afraid she will never speak again." But she did.

After a brief but quiet sleep she opened her eyes. Gertrude knew that she was recognised. Stooping down to catch the broken words that came from her parched lips, she distinctly heard:

"I was sure always--from the very first--that G.o.d would bless you. And now--though I am going to die--you will do all for Christ--that I would like to have done."

Effie was refreshed and strengthened by two or three hours of quiet sleep. The day pa.s.sed, the evening came and went, and Christie gave no sign of pain or restlessness.

"It will be about the turn of the night," said the nurse, raising the night-lamp to look on her face. But it was not. At the turn of the night she awoke, and called her sister by name. Effie's face was on the pillow beside her, and she kissed her softly, without speaking.

Christie fondly returned her caress. She seemed strangely revived.

"Effie," she said, "do you remember something that our mother used to sing to us--?

"'No dimming clouds o'ershadow thee, No dull and darksome night, But every soul shines as the sun, And G.o.d Himself is light.'"

Yes, Effie remembered it well, and she went on, with no break in her voice, as Christie ceased:

"'No pain, no pang, no bitter grief, No woeful night is there; No sob, no sigh, no cry is heard; No will-awa', no care!'"

And many a verse more of that quaint, touching old canticle did she sing, all the time watching the smile of wonderful content that was beautifying the dying face.

"You are quite willing now, Effie?" she said, softly.

"Quite willing," said Effie, softly.

"And it is coming very near now!"

"Very near, love. Very near now!"

"Very near!" She never spoke again. She lingered till the dawn of the new year's morning, all the time lying like a child slumbering in the nurse's arms, and then she died.

They did not lay her to rest among the many nameless graves which had seemed so sad and dreary to her in the beautiful burial-place one summer day. The spotless snow near her father's grave was disturbed on a winter's morning, and Christie was laid to rest beside him.

There she has lain through many a summer and winter, but her remembrance has not perished from the earth. There are loving hearts on both sides of the sea who still cherish her memory. Gertrude--no longer Miss Gertrude, however--in the new home she has found, tells the little children at her knee of her little brother Claude and his nurse, who loved each other so dearly on earth, and who now are doubtless loving each other in heaven; and in a fair Canadian manse a grave and beautiful woman often tells, with softened voice, the sad yet happy tale of the sister who went away and who never came home again, but who found a better home in her Father's house above.

THE END.