Christie Redfern's Troubles Part 36

And yet, by a thousand tokens, Gertrude knew that she would have enjoyed keenly many pleasures that were quite beyond her hopes--leisure, and books, and going to school, and the power to give gifts and confer favours. To be able to live at home, with no heavy cares pressing on the family, would be real happiness for her. All this Gertrude gathered from the conversations they sometimes had, from occasional remarks, and from her intense delight when letters from home came.

And yet she did not repine in the absence of these things. She was happy in the performance of her duties, whether they were easy or not, and enjoyed the few simple pleasures that came in her way.

"It is not because she is stupid, or that she does not know anything else," said Gertrude to herself. "She enjoys reading and learning as well as I do, and makes a far better use of the chance she has: and yet she lives on from day to day, wearying herself with little Claude, and st.i.tching away, as though she cared for nothing beyond. Wouldn't she enjoy being rich, and sending things to her family! Why, the delight she had over that common grey plaid that she sent to her aunt was quite absurd--and quite touching too. It cost her two months' wages at the very least, but she did not seem to think of that. The only thing that marred her happiness at all that day was the want of a few pence that would have enabled her to buy a warm pair of slippers to go with the shawl. She doesn't seem to think of herself. I wonder why?"

And Gertrude watched her still, thinking her often needlessly particular in the performance of small duties, and losing patience now and then, when these things interfered with her wishes. But the more she watched her daily life the more sure she felt that Christie had some secret of sweet peace which she had not yet found. She knew that her strength and cheerfulness daily renewed came from none of the helps to which one in her circ.u.mstances might naturally look. It was not the knowledge that she was valued, nor the feeling that little Claude was beginning to love her dearly, that sustained her; though Gertrude could see that these were pleasant and precious to the little maid. It was not even the thought of home, or Effie's letters, or the pleasant word they brought of how she was missed and how they wished her with them. It was not the hope of the time when they should all be together again. To these ardent young people this re-union seemed by no means impossible, or even distant. With Gertrude's help, Christie often built castles in the air, about a farm which was to be the wonder of the country-side, where they were all to live together, and where Gertrude herself was to pa.s.s many a pleasant day.

But it was not this, nor all of these, that brought the look of sweet contentment to that pale face, when she thought herself quite un.o.bserved. It was there sometimes when she was wearied. She was not naturally hopeful or cheerful. She had none of that happy self-confidence which makes burdens light and causes difficulties to disappear. The source of her courage and patience was out of herself.

Her gentle cheerfulness, flowing evenly through long days and weeks, sprang from some unseen fountain, pure and free and never-failing.

Sometimes it came into the young lady's mind that Christie's constant study of her little Bible had something to do with her being so different from any one she had ever known before. But both of them were a little shy about speaking of these things. They talked about the histories, and even about the doctrines, of the Bible. The stories that little Claude so delighted in all came from the Bible; and Christie had no shyness in speaking to him. To these stories, and the simple comments made on them, Gertrude sometimes listened when she seemed to be occupied with far other matters, and she would have liked very much to have heard more on some of the themes of which these conversations gave her only a hint. But Christie seldom talked about herself. It was only by slow degrees that she came to understand the secret of her content.

Coming one night later than usual into the upper nursery, she found Christie sitting with her little Bible in her hand. She shut it as Gertrude sat down beside her, but she did not put it away.

"I suppose it is too late to begin to read anything now?" said Gertrude.

"I have been helping Miss Atherton to dress. You should have seen her!

Her dress was splendid--too splendid for so small a party, mother thought. I wish I had called you to see her."

"I wish you had, indeed," said Christie, with real interest, for she was a great admirer of anything pretty. "I should like to have seen her.

She is beautiful always."

"Yes, but dress makes a difference even in beautiful people. I have seen ladies who looked quite plain at home by daylight, who were thought great beauties by those who only saw them at parties. But Miss Atherton is always beautiful. She will s.h.i.+ne to-night."

Gertrude sat for a little while gazing into the fire.

"Would you like to have gone with her?" asked Christie.

"No, I think not; I am sure not. I was asked, you know, and I dare say mother would not have objected to my going. But I find these parties very stupid."

"Miss Atherton does not find them stupid, I should think."

"Miss Atherton! Oh, no! But she is quite different. I dare say I should like them well enough too, if I were quite grown up, and a belle like her. But one like me is only in the way in such a place, unless she sits quiet in a corner. That is all very well for a little time, but it soon becomes stupid enough."

"But you are not a little girl. You are fifteen," said Christie.

"Yes, I am too old to be contented with a seat in a corner, so I don't like parties yet. And I do believe father thinks it is because I am so sensible."

Christie could not help laughing at the half-grave, half-comic way in which this was spoken.

"It must be very pleasant to be a belle, however," continued Gertrude, meditatively, "to have all eyes fixed on you in admiration, and to eclipse all the rest of the stars."

"But that doesn't often happen, except in books, I fancy," said Christie.

"Well, I suppose not. It couldn't happen very often. But it must be delightful when it _does_ happen. Don't you think so?" she added, as Christie's face grew grave. "Wouldn't you like to s.h.i.+ne, as Miss Atherton will, at the Youngs' to-night?"

"You forget I don't know about these things," said Christie.

"Nonsense! You can imagine how it would seem. I can imagine how it would seem to be drawn over the snow by reindeer, or to be carried away in a balloon. Now, tell me--wouldn't you like to be beautiful and rich, and admired by everybody?"

"I can imagine something I would like far better."

"What, the model farm, and to live at home? Oh, but if you are to wish, you know, you may as well wish for riches and beauty and all the rest at once! You would never stop short at your farm and contentment, if you had your wish."

Christie shook her head. "I think I would not wish at all."

"Do you mean that you are so satisfied with your lot that you would not have it different if your wish could change it?" asked Miss Gertrude, in some surprise.

Christie hesitated a moment.

"I mean that I don't know what is best for me or for those I love, and He who has appointed our lot does; and so all things are best as they are."

"Do you mean that you would rather be as you are, living away from home, among strangers, poor and not very strong, than to have all that we sometimes talk about, and to be able to be benevolent and live at home with your sisters?"

"Ah, that would be very pleasant; at least, it seems so now. But still it might not be best for us. If it would be best, we should have it so, I am quite sure."

Gertrude opened her eyes in amazement.

"But I don't know what you mean by _best_!" she said, presently.

"Don't you?" said Christie, smiling a little. "Well, I am not good at explaining things. I don't mean what is pleasantest just now, but what is really best for us all, now, and--and afterwards."

"Do you mean to say that you are better off here as Claude's nurse than you would be if you were to live at home, or go to school, as you were wis.h.i.+ng you could the other day? If you had your choice, is that what you would choose?"

"Oh, I don't speak about a choice. I am content not to choose; at least, almost always I am content. I know it is best for me to be here, or I shouldn't be here."

"But, do you know, that seems to me quite absurd. Why, according to that, everybody is just in the right place. No one ought to have any wish to change, even to be better. All the world is just as it ought to be."

"I can't tell what is best for all the world and everybody," said Christie, gravely. "I was only speaking of myself and Effie, and the rest at home."

"But I suppose what is true for you is true for other people also--for me, for instance! Don't you think I have anything left to wish for? Do you think I am in the very best place I could be in for my happiness now and always?"

"I don't know," said Christie, looking wistfully into her face. "I hope so. I cannot tell."

"But what makes you so sure in your own case, then, if you can't tell in mine? I think few people would hesitate as to which of us is most happily placed. What makes you so sure of yourself?"

Christie did not reply for a moment. She was slowly turning over the leaves of her Bible. When at last she stopped, it was to read softly:

"'For a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth.'"

And, farther on:

"'Consider the ravens: for they neither sow nor reap; which neither have storehouse nor barn; and G.o.d feedeth them: how much are ye better than the fowls?'

"'Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.'

"'If then G.o.d so clothe the gra.s.s, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, how much more will He clothe you, O ye of little faith!'"

Gertrude had half expected some such answers. She did not speak, but watched her as she continued to turn the leaves. She read again: