Christie Redferns Troubles | Page 5

not, during all the summer, been a more uncomfortable day
than the one whose close found Christie sitting so disconsolately under
the birch-tree by the brook. It had begun badly, as too many of those
days did. In looking for something in the garret, Christie had found a
book that had been missing for a long time. It was one of her favourites.
She had read it often before, but not recently; and in those days new
books were rare, and old books proportionably precious.
Sitting down on the floor, amid the scattered contents of the chest she
had been rummaging, she forgot, in the charm of "The Family Tryst,"
that the dough of her batch of bread was fast approaching that stage of
lightness that needed her attention, and that her oven was by no means
in a proper state to receive it when that point should be reached. Page
after page she turned with a vague feeling that each should be the last,
till even this half-consciousness of wrong-doing was lost in the intense
enjoyment of the tale; and then--the charm was broken.
Aunt Elsie's sharp, quick tones, coming suddenly upon her, must have
startled the nervous child with a shock of pain quite apart from any
thought of the consequences of her fault; and it was with hands that
trembled violently that the book was hidden and the scattered contents
of the chest were gathered together again. Then she thought of her
bread; and her heart failed within her.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she said to herself; but no such word was spoken to
her aunt. Indeed, to her she said nothing; and it was not sorrow for her
fault, but sullenness or indifference, or something that might easily be
mistaken for these, that her aunt saw on her face as she came

down-stairs. It was very provoking. The bread was ready for the oven,
but the oven was by no means ready for the bread. And now for the
next three days, at least, the children and the hungry harvest-people
must content themselves with sour bread, in consequence of Christie's
carelessness. It was Christie's wilful disobedience, her aunt declared;
and, really, the sullen, unrepentant look on the girl's face was almost
enough to excuse her aunt's bitter words and the sudden blow that fell
on her averted cheek. A blow was a very rare thing with Aunt Elsie. It
was not repeated now. Indeed, she would hardly have ventured to strike
again the white, indignant face that was turned towards her. Surprise
and anger kept the girl for one moment silent; then, in a voice she could
hardly make audible for the beating of her heart, she gasped:
"I hate you, Aunt Elsie! I wish I were dead!"
"Be quiet, with your wicked words!" cried Aunt Elsie. "You are far
from being in a fit state to die, you disobedient, bad child."
But Aunt Elsie was vexed with herself for the blow she had given, and
all the more vexed with Christie on that account. Christie was really
sorry for her fault; but, quite forgetting that she had given no sign of
sorrow, she called her aunt unjust and cruel, and bitterly resented both
word and blow. Anger and pride gave her strength to obey the
command to carry the bread to a cool place, and to keep back a rush of
tears till her task was done. But it failed her then; and, throwing herself
on the ground, out of sight, she wept and sobbed, and uttered words as
wicked and passionate as those which her aunt had reproved.
This was the beginning; and after that nothing could be expected to go
well. Though her head ached and her hands trembled, the work of the
house must be done; and more than her usual share fell to Christie
to-day. For Aunt Elsie's rheumatism was bad again, and much that she
usually did was left to Christie. But her aunt did not say she was ill.
The added tasks were assigned with a voice and in a manner that
seemed to declare them a part of the punishment for the fault of the
morning; and we cannot wonder much that they were sullenly
performed.

"I don't care," repeated Christie to herself, over and over again, that day.
"There is no use in trying to please Aunt Elsie. It makes no difference.
She's cross always. I never do anything right, she says; and I don't
care!"
But she did care, for all that. She was very wretched. She avoided her
sisters when they came home to dinner, saying she had a headache, and
didn't want any--which, indeed, was true; and her sisters, thinking that
she and Aunt Elsie had had a falling-out which would be made up
before night,