Christie Redfern's Troubles Part 5

"But I must mind," said Effie, gravely. "The bairns will need these things before I can get two whole days at home again, and my aunt and the girls have enough to do without this. Duty before pleasure, Christie. See; you can help me by picking away this skirt. We must make the best of things."

Christie applied herself to the task, but not without many a sigh and many a longing look at the bright sunshine. If Effie once got fairly engaged in planning and patching, there would be no use in thinking of a walk before milking-time.

"Oh, dear!" she said, with a sigh. "I wish there was no such a thing as old clothes in the world!"

"Well, if there were plenty of new ones in it, I wouldna object to your wish being gratified," said Effie, laughing. "But as there are few likely to come our way for a while, we must do the best we can with the old. We might be worse off, Christie."

"Do you like to do it?" asked Christie.

"I like to see it when it's done, at any rate. There is a great deal of pleasure in a patch of that kind," she said, holding up the sleeve she had been mending. "You would hardly know there was a patch there."

Christie bent her short-sighted eyes to the work.

"Yes; it's very nice. I wonder you have the patience. Aunt Elsie might do it, I'm sure."

Effie looked grave again.

"I am afraid Aunt Elsie won't do much this winter. Her hands are getting bad again. I must be busy while I am here. Never mind the walk. We'll get a long walk together if we go to the kirk."

"Yes, if it doesna rain, or if something doesna happen to hinder us."

But she looked as though she thought there was nothing so pleasant in store for her as a long walk with Effie; and she worked away at the faded little garment with many a sigh.

Sunday came, and, in spite of Christie's forebodings, the day rose bright and beautiful. The kirk which the Redferns attended lay three long miles from the farm. The distance and the increasing shabbiness of little garments often kept the children at home, and Christie, too, had to stay and share their tasks. They had no conveyance of their own, and though the others might be none the worse for a little exposure to rain or wind, her aunt would never permit Christie to run the risk of getting wet or over-tired. So it was with a face almost as bright as Effie's own that she hailed the bright sunshine and the cloudless sky. For Sunday was not always a pleasant day for her at home. Indeed, it was generally a very wearisome day. It was Aunt Elsie's desire and intention that it should be well kept. But, beyond giving out a certain number of questions in the catechism, or a psalm or chapter to be learned by the little ones, she did not help them to keep it. It was given as a task, and it was learned and repeated as a task. None of them ever aspired to anything more than to get through the allotted portion "without missing." There was not much pleasure in it, nor in the readings that generally followed; for though good and valuable books in themselves, they were too often quite beyond the comprehension of the little listeners. A quiet walk in the garden, or in the nearest field, was the utmost that was permitted in the way of amus.e.m.e.nt; and though sometimes the walk might become a run or a romp, and the childish voices rise higher than the Sunday pitch when there was no one to reprove, it must be confessed that Sunday was the longest day in all the week for the little Redferns.

To none of them all was it longer than to Christie. She did not care to share the stolen pleasures of the rest. Beading was her only resource.

Idle books were, on Sundays, and on weekdays too, Aunt Elsie's peculiar aversion; and, unfortunately, all the books that Christie cared about came under this cla.s.s, in her estimation. All the enjoyment she could get in reading must be stolen; and between the fear of detection and the consciousness of wrong-doing, the pleasure, such as it was, was generally hardly worth seeking.

So it was with many self-congratulations that she set out with Effie to the kirk. They were alone. Their father had gone earlier to attend the Gaelic service, which he alone of all the family understood, and Annie and Sarah, after the labours of a harvest-week, declared themselves too weary to undertake the walk. It was a very lovely morning. Here and there a yellow birch, or a crimson maple bough, gave token that the dreary autumn was not far-away; but the air was mild and balmy as June, and the bright sunlight made even the rough road and the low-lying stubble-fields look lovely, in Christie's eyes.

"How quiet and peaceful all things are!" she thought.

The insects were chirping merrily enough, and now and then the voice of a bird was heard, and from the woodland pastures far-away the tinkle of sheep-bells fell pleasantly on the ear. But these sounds in no way jarred on the Sabbath stillness; and as Christie followed her sister along the narrow path that led them by a near way across the fields to the half-mile corner where the road took a sudden turn to the right, a strange feeling of peace stole over her. The burden of vexing and discontented thoughts, that too frequently weighed on her heart, seemed to fall away under the pleasant influence of the sunshine and the quiet, and she drew a long sigh of relief as she said, softly:

"Oh, Effie! such a bonny day!"

"Yes," said Effie, turning round for a moment, and smiling at her sister's brightening face. "It seems just such a day as one would choose the Sabbath to be--so bright, yet so peaceful. I am very glad."

But they could not say much yet; for the path was narrow, and there were stones and rough places, and now and then a little water to be avoided; so they went on quietly till they reached the low stone wall that separated the field from the high-road. The boughs of the old tree that hung over it were looking bare and autumn-like already, but under the flickering shadow they sat down for a while to rest.

"Hark!" said Christie, as the sound of wheels reached them. "That must be the Nesbitts. They never go to the Gaelic service. I dare say they will ask us to ride." There was an echo of disappointment in her tone; and in a moment she added:

"It is such a bonny day, and the walk would be so pleasant by and by in the cool shade!"

"Yes," said Effie. "But if they ask us we'll ride; for six miles is a long walk for you. And it will be nice to ride, too."

And so it was. The long wagon was drawn by two stout horses. No one was in it but John Nesbitt and his mother; and they were both delighted to offer a seat to the young girls. Christie sat on the front seat with John, who was quite silent, thinking his own thoughts or listening to the quiet talk going on between Effie and his mother; and Christie enjoyed her drive in silence too.

How very pleasant it seemed! They went slowly, for they had plenty of time; and Christie's eyes wandered over the scene--the sky, the changing trees, the brown fields and the green pastures--with an interest and enjoyment that surprised herself. There was not much to see; but any change was pleasant to the eyes that had rested for weeks on the same familiar objects. Then the unaccustomed and agreeable motion exhilarated without wearying her. And when at last they came in sight of the kirk, Christie could not help wishing that they had farther to go.

The kirk, of itself, was rather an unsightly object than otherwise.

Except for the two rows of small windows on each side, it differed little in appearance from the large wooden barns so common in that part of the country. The woods were close behind it; and in the summer-time they were a pleasant sight. On one side lay the graveyard. On days when the sun did not shine, or in the autumn before the snow had come to cover up the long, rank gra.s.s, the graveyard was a very dreary place to Christie, and instead of lingering in it she usually went into the kirk, even though the Gaelic service was not over. But to-day she sat down near the door, at Effie's side, and waited till the people should come out. Mrs Nesbitt had gone into a neighbour's house, and the two girls were quite alone.

"Effie," said Christie, "I think the minister must preach better in Gaelic than he does in English. Just look in. n.o.body will see you.

The folk are no' thinking about things outside."

Effie raised herself a little, and bent forward to see. It was a very odd-looking place. The pulpit was placed, not at the end of the house, as is usual in places of worship, but at one side. There was no aisle.

The door opened directly into the body of the house, and from the place where they stood could be seen not only the minister, but the many earnest faces that were turned towards him. The lower part of the place was crowded to the threshold, and tier above tier of earnest faces looked down from the gallery. No sound save the voice of the preacher was heard, and on him every eye was fastened. A few of the little ones had gone to sleep, leaning on the shoulders of their elders; but all the rest were listening as though life and death depended on the words he uttered. The minister was speaking rapidly, and, as Effie knew, solemnly, though she could only here and there catch the meaning of his words. Indeed, it must have been easy to speak earnestly when addressing such a mult.i.tude of eager listeners, who were hungry for the bread of life.

"I dare say the difference is in the hearers rather than in the preaching," said Effie, turning away softly.

"But, Effie, many of them are the very same people. I wish I knew what he was saying!"

"I dare say it is easier to speak in Gaelic, for one thing. The folk, at least most of them, like it better, even when they understand English. And it must make a great difference to a minister when he sees people listening like that. I dare say he says the very same things to us in English."

Christie still stood looking in at the open door.

"It ay minds me of the Day of Judgment," she said, "when I see the people sitting like that, and when they come thronging out into the kirk-yard and stand about among the graves."

She shuddered slightly, and came and sat down beside Effie, and did not speak again till the service was over. What a crowd there was then!

How the people came pouring out--with faces grave and composed, indeed, but not half so solemn, Christie thought, as they ought to have been!

The voices rose to quite a loud hum as they pa.s.sed from the door.

Greetings were interchanged, and arrangements were made for going home.

Invitations were given and accepted, and the larger part of the crowd moved slowly away.

The English congregation was comparatively small. The English sermon immediately followed; but, whatever might be the reason, Christie said many times to herself that there was a great difference in the minister's manner of preaching now. He looked tired. And no wonder.

Two long services immediately succeeding each other were enough to tire him. Christie strove to listen and to understand. She did not succeed very well. She enjoyed the singing always, and especially to-day singing out of the Psalms at the end of her own new Bible. But though she tried very hard to make herself think that she enjoyed the sermon too, she failed; and she was not sorry when it was over and she found herself among the crowd in the kirk-yard again. She had still the going home before her.

To her great delight, Effie refused a ride in the Nesbitts' wagon, in order that some who had walked in the morning might enjoy it. She hoped to have her sister all to herself for a little while. She did not, however. They were joined by several who were going their way; and more than one lengthened their walk and went home the longest way, for the sake of their company. It was not until they found themselves again at the half-mile corner that they were quite alone. Christie sighed as she leaned for a moment on the wall.

"You are tired, dear," said Effie. "It is well we didna have to walk both ways. Sit and rest a while."

"I am not _very_ tired," said Christie; but she sighed again as she sat down.

"Effie, I wish I liked better to go to the kirk."

"Why, Christie?" said her sister, in surprise. "I thought you liked it very much. You said so in the morning."

"Yes, I know; I like the walk, and the getting away from home; and I like the singing, and to see the people. But the preaching--others seem to like it so much; but I don't. I don't understand half that is said.

Do you?"

"I don't understand always," said Effie, a little doubtfully.

"And sometimes I canna help thinking about other things--the foolishest things!--stories, and bits of songs; and sometimes I get _so_ sleepy."

"It's wrong to think about other things in the kirk," said Effie, scarcely knowing what to say.

"But I canna help it! Now, to-day I meant to try; and I did. Some things I seemed to understand at the time; but most that he said I didna understand, and I have forgotten it all now. I don't believe I could tell even the text."