SEAMSTRESS.
For some weeks Christie rested and refreshed herself by making her room
gay and comfortable with the gifts lavished on her by the Carrols, and
by sharing with others the money which Harry had smuggled into her
possession after she had steadily refused to take one penny more than
the sum agreed upon when she first went to them.
She took infinite satisfaction in sending one hundred dollars to Uncle
Enos, for she had accepted what he gave her as a loan, and set her
heart on repaying every fraction of it. Another hundred she gave to
Hepsey, who found her out and came to report her trials and
tribulations. The good soul had ventured South and tried to buy her
mother. But “ole missis” would not let her go at any price, and the
faithful chattel would not run away. Sorely disappointed, Hepsey had
been obliged to submit; but her trip was not a failure, for she
liberated several brothers and sent them triumphantly to Canada.
“You must take it, Hepsey, for I could not rest happy if I put it away
to lie idle while you can save men and women from torment with it. I’d
give it if it was my last penny, for I can help in no other way; and if
I need money, I can always earn it, thank God!” said Christie, as
Hepsey hesitated to take so much from a fellow-worker.
The thought of that investment lay warm at Christie’s heart, and never
woke a regret, for well she knew that every dollar of it would be
blessed, since shares in the Underground Railroad pay splendid
dividends that never fail.
Another portion of her fortune, as she called Harry’s gift, was
bestowed in wedding presents upon Lucy, who at length succeeded in
winning the heart of the owner of the “heavenly eyes” and “distracting
legs;” and, having gained her point, married him with dramatic
celerity, and went West to follow the fortunes of her lord.
The old theatre was to be demolished and the company scattered, so a
farewell festival was held, and Christie went to it, feeling more
solitary than ever as she bade her old friends a long good-bye.
The rest of the money burned in her pocket, but she prudently put it by
for a rainy day, and fell to work again when her brief vacation was
over.
Hearing of a chance for a good needle-woman in a large and
well-conducted mantua-making establishment, she secured it as a
temporary thing, for she wanted to divert her mind from that last sad
experience by entirely different employment and surroundings. She liked
to return at night to her own little home, solitary and simple as it
was, and felt a great repugnance to accept any place where she would be
mixed up with family affairs again.
So day after day she went to her seat in the workroom where a dozen
other young women sat sewing busily on gay garments, with as much
lively gossip to beguile the time as Miss Cotton, the forewoman, would
allow.
For a while it diverted Christie, as she had a feminine love for pretty
things, and enjoyed seeing delicate silks, costly lace, and all the
indescribable fantasies of fashion. But as spring came on, the old
desire for something fresh and free began to haunt her, and she had
both waking and sleeping dreams of a home in the country somewhere,
with cows and flowers, clothes bleaching on green grass, bob-o’-links
making rapturous music by the river, and the smell of new-mown hay, all
lending their charms to the picture she painted for herself.
Most assuredly she would have gone to find these things, led by the
instincts of a healthful nature, had not one slender tie held her till
it grew into a bond so strong she could not break it.
Among her companions was one, and one only, who attracted her. The
others were well-meaning girls, but full of the frivolous purposes and
pleasures which their tastes prompted and their dull life fostered.
Dress, gossip, and wages were the three topics which absorbed them.
Christie soon tired of the innumerable changes rung upon these themes,
and took refuge in her own thoughts, soon learning to enjoy them
undisturbed by the clack of many tongues about her. Her evenings at
home were devoted to books, for she had the true New England woman’s
desire for education, and read or studied for the love of it. Thus she
had much to think of as her needle flew, and was rapidly becoming a
sort of sewing-machine when life was brightened for her by the finding
of a friend.
Among the girls was one quiet, skilful creature, whose black dress,
peculiar face, and silent ways attracted Christie. Her evident desire
to be let alone amused the new comer at first, and she made no effort
to know her. But presently she became aware that Rachel watched her
with covert interest, stealing quick, shy glances at her as she sat
musing over her work. Christie smiled at her when she caught these
glances, as if to reassure the looker of her good-will. But Rachel only
colored, kept her eyes fixed on her work, and was more reserved than
ever.
This interested Christie, and she fell to studying this young woman
with some curiosity, for she was different from the others. Though
evidently younger than she looked, Rachel’s face was that of one who
had known some great sorrow, some deep experience; for there were lines
on the forehead that contrasted strongly with the bright, abundant hair
above it; in repose, the youthfully red, soft lips had a mournful
droop, and the eyes were old with that indescribable expression which
comes to those who count their lives by emotions, not by years.
Strangely haunting eyes to Christie, for they seemed to appeal to her
with a mute eloquence she could not resist. In vain did Rachel answer
her with quiet coldness, nod silently when she wished her a cheery
“good morning,” and keep resolutely in her own somewhat isolated
corner, though invited to share the sunny window where the other sat.
Her eyes belied her words, and those fugitive glances betrayed the
longing of a lonely heart that dared not yield itself to the genial
companionship so freely offered it.
Christie was sure of this, and would not be repulsed; for her own heart
was very solitary. She missed Helen, and longed to fill the empty
place. She wooed this shy, cold girl as patiently and as gently as a
lover might, determined to win her confidence, because all the others
had failed to do it. Sometimes she left a flower in Rachel’s basket,
always smiled and nodded as she entered, and often stopped to admire
the work of her tasteful fingers. It was impossible to resist such
friendly overtures, and slowly Rachel’s coldness melted; into the
beseeching eyes came a look of gratitude, the more touching for its
wordlessness, and an irrepressible smile broke over her face in answer
to the cordial ones that made the sunshine of her day.
Emboldened by these demonstrations, Christie changed her seat, and
quietly established between them a daily interchange of something
beside needles, pins, and spools. Then, as Rachel did not draw back
offended, she went a step farther, and, one day when they chanced to be
left alone to finish off a delicate bit of work, she spoke out frankly:
“Why can’t we be friends? I want one sadly, and so do you, unless your
looks deceive me. We both seem to be alone in the world, to have had
trouble, and to like one another. I won’t annoy you by any impertinent
curiosity, nor burden you with uninteresting confidences; I only want
to feel that you like me a little and don’t mind my liking you a great
deal. Will you be my friend, and let me be yours?”
A great tear rolled down upon the shining silk in Rachel’s hands as she
looked into Christie’s earnest face, and answered with an almost
passionate gratitude in her own:
“You can never need a friend as much as I do, or know what a blessed
thing it is to find such an one as you are.”
“Then I may love you, and not be afraid of offending?” cried Christie,
much touched.
“Yes. But remember I didn’t ask it first,” said Rachel, half dropping
the hand she had held in both her own.
“You proud creature! I’ll remember; and when we quarrel, I’ll take all
the blame upon myself.”
Then Christie kissed her warmly, whisked away the tear, and began to
paint the delights in store for them in her most enthusiastic way,
being much elated with her victory; while Rachel listened with a newly
kindled light in her lovely eyes, and a smile that showed how winsome
her face had been before many tears washed its bloom away, and much
trouble made it old too soon.
Christie kept her word,—asked no questions, volunteered no confidences,
but heartily enjoyed the new friendship, and found that it gave to life
the zest which it had lacked before. Now some one cared for her, and,
better still, she could make some one happy, and in the act of
lavishing the affection of her generous nature on a creature sadder and
more solitary than herself, she found a satisfaction that never lost
its charm. There was nothing in her possession that she did not offer
Rachel, from the whole of her heart to the larger half of her little
room.
“I’m tired of thinking only of myself. It makes me selfish and
low-spirited; for I’m not a bit interesting. I must love somebody, and
‘love them hard,’ as children say; so why can’t you come and stay with
me? There’s room enough, and we could be so cosy evenings with our
books and work. I know you need some one to look after you, and I love
dearly to take care of people. Do come,” she would say, with most
persuasive hospitality.
But Rachel always answered steadily: “Not yet, Christie, not yet. I’ve
got something to do before I can think of doing any thing so beautiful
as that. Only love me, dear, and some day I’ll show you all my heart,
and thank you as I ought.”
So Christie was content to wait, and, meantime, enjoyed much; for, with
Rachel as a friend, she ceased to care for country pleasures, found
happiness in the work that gave her better food than mere daily bread,
and never thought of change; for love can make a home for itself
anywhere.
A very bright and happy time was this in Christie’s life; but, like
most happy times, it was very brief. Only one summer allowed for the
blossoming of the friendship that budded so slowly in the spring; then
the frost came and killed the flowers; but the root lived long
underneath the snows of suffering, doubt, and absence.
Coming to her work late one morning, she found the usually orderly room
in confusion. Some of the girls were crying; some whispering
together,—all looking excited and dismayed. Mrs. King sat majestically
at her table, with an ominous frown upon her face. Miss Cotton stood
beside her, looking unusually sour and stern, for the ancient virgin’s
temper was not of the best. Alone, before them all, with her face
hidden in her hands, and despair in every line of her drooping figure,
stood Rachel,—a meek culprit at the stern bar of justice, where women
try a sister woman.
“What’s the matter?” cried Christie, pausing on the threshold.
[Illustration: MRS. KING AND MISS COTTON.]
Rachel shivered, as if the sound of that familiar voice was a fresh
wound, but she did not lift her head; and Mrs. King answered, with a
nervous emphasis that made the bugles of her head-dress rattle
dismally:
“A very sad thing, Miss Devon,—very sad, indeed; a thing which never
occurred in my establishment before, and never shall again. It appears
that Rachel, whom we all considered a most respectable and worthy girl,
has been quite the reverse. I shudder to think what the consequences of
my taking her without a character (a thing I never do, and was only
tempted by her superior taste as a trimmer) might have been if Miss
Cotton, having suspicions, had not made strict inquiry and confirmed
them.”
“That was a kind and generous act, and Miss Cotton must feel proud of
it,” said Christie, with an indignant recollection of Mr. Fletcher’s
“cautious inquiries” about herself.
“It was perfectly right and proper, Miss Devon; and I thank her for her
care of my interests.” And Mrs. King bowed her acknowledgment of the
service with a perfect castanet accompaniment, whereat Miss Cotton
bridled with malicious complacency.
“Mrs. King, are you sure of this?” said Christie. “Miss Cotton does not
like Rachel because her work is so much praised. May not her jealousy
make her unjust, or her zeal for you mislead her?”
“I thank you for your polite insinuations, miss,” returned the irate
forewoman. “I never make mistakes; but you will find that you have made
a very great one in choosing Rachel for your bosom friend instead of
some one who would be a credit to you. Ask the creature herself if all
I’ve said of her isn’t true. She can’t deny it.”
With the same indefinable misgiving which had held her aloof, Christie
turned to Rachel, lifted up the hidden face with gentle force, and
looked into it imploringly, as she whispered: “Is it true?”
The woful countenance she saw made any other answer needless.
Involuntarily her hands fell away, and she hid her own face, uttering
the one reproach, which, tender and tearful though it was, seemed
harder to be borne than the stern condemnation gone before.
“Oh, Rachel, I so loved and trusted you!”
The grief, affection, and regret that trembled in her voice roused
Rachel from her state of passive endurance and gave her courage to
plead for herself. But it was Christie whom she addressed, Christie
whose pardon she implored, Christie’s sorrowful reproach that she most
keenly felt.
“Yes, it is true,” she said, looking only at the woman who had been the
first to befriend and now was the last to desert her. “It is true that
I once went astray, but God knows I have repented; that for years I’ve
tried to be an honest girl again, and that but for His help I should be
a far sadder creature than I am this day. Christie, you can never know
how bitter hard it is to outlive a sin like mine, and struggle up again
from such a fall. It clings to me; it won’t be shaken off or buried out
of sight. No sooner do I find a safe place like this, and try to forget
the past, than some one reads my secret in my face and hunts me down.
It seems very cruel, very hard, yet it is my punishment, so I try to
bear it, and begin again. What hurts me now more than all the rest,
what breaks my heart, is that I deceived you. I never meant to do it. I
did not seek you, did I? I tried to be cold and stiff; never asked for
love, though starving for it, till you came to me, so kind, so
generous, so dear,—how could I help it? Oh, how could I help it then?”
Christie had watched Rachel while she spoke, and spoke to her alone;
her heart yearned toward this one friend, for she still loved her, and,
loving, she believed in her.
“I don’t reproach you, dear: I don’t despise or desert you, and though
I’m grieved and disappointed, I’ll stand by you still, because you need
me more than ever now, and I want to prove that I am a true friend.
Mrs. King, please forgive and let poor Rachel stay here, safe among
us.”
“Miss Devon, I’m surprised at you! By no means; it would be the ruin of
my establishment; not a girl would remain, and the character of my
rooms would be lost for ever,” replied Mrs. King, goaded on by the
relentless Cotton.
“But where will she go if you send her away? Who will employ her if you
inform against her? What stranger will believe in her if we, who have
known her so long, fail to befriend her now? Mrs. King, think of your
own daughters, and be a mother to this poor girl for their sake.”
That last stroke touched the woman’s heart; her cold eye softened, her
hard mouth relaxed, and pity was about to win the day, when prudence,
in the shape of Miss Cotton, turned the scale, for that spiteful
spinster suddenly cried out, in a burst of righteous wrath:
“If that hussy stays, I leave this establishment for ever!” and
followed up the blow by putting on her bonnet with a flourish.
At this spectacle, self-interest got the better of sympathy in Mrs.
King’s worldly mind. To lose Cotton was to lose her right hand, and
charity at that price was too expensive a luxury to be indulged in; so
she hardened her heart, composed her features, and said, impressively:
“Take off your bonnet, Cotton; I have no intention of offending you, or
any one else, by such a step. I forgive you, Rachel, and I pity you;
but I can’t think of allowing you to stay. There are proper
institutions for such as you, and I advise you to go to one and repent.
You were paid Saturday night, so nothing prevents your leaving at once.
Time is money here, and we are wasting it. Young ladies, take your
seats.”
All but Christie obeyed, yet no one touched a needle, and Mrs. King
sat, hurriedly stabbing pins into the fat cushion on her breast, as if
testing the hardness of her heart.
Rachel’s eye went round the room; saw pity, aversion, or contempt, on
every face, but met no answering glance, for even Christie’s eyes were
bent thoughtfully on the ground, and Christie’s heart seemed closed
against her. As she looked her whole manner changed; her tears ceased
to fall, her face grew hard, and a reckless mood seemed to take
possession of her, as if finding herself deserted by womankind, she
would desert her own womanhood.
“I might have known it would be so,” she said abruptly, with a bitter
smile, sadder to see than her most hopeless tears. “It’s no use for
such as me to try; better go back to the old life, for there are kinder
hearts among the sinners than among the saints, and no one can live
without a bit of love. Your Magdalen Asylums are penitentiaries, not
homes; I won’t go to any of them. Your piety isn’t worth much, for
though you read in your Bible how the Lord treated a poor soul like me,
yet when I stretch out my hand to you for help, not one of all you
virtuous, Christian women dare take it and keep me from a life that’s
worse than hell.”
As she spoke Rachel flung out her hand with a half-defiant gesture, and
Christie took it. That touch, full of womanly compassion, seemed to
exorcise the desperate spirit that possessed the poor girl in her
despair, for, with a stifled exclamation, she sunk down at Christie’s
feet, and lay there weeping in all the passionate abandonment of love
and gratitude, remorse and shame. Never had human voice sounded so
heavenly sweet to her as that which broke the silence of the room, as
this one friend said, with the earnestness of a true and tender heart:
“Mrs. King, if you send her away, I must take her in; for if she does
go back to the old life, the sin of it will lie at our door, and God
will remember it against us in the end. Some one must trust her, help
her, love her, and so save her, as nothing else will. Perhaps I can do
this better than you,—at least, I’ll try; for even if I risk the loss
of my good name, I could bear that better than the thought that Rachel
had lost the work of these hard years for want of upholding now. She
shall come home with me; no one there need know of this discovery, and
I will take any work to her that you will give me, to keep her from
want and its temptations. Will you do this, and let me sew for less, if
I can pay you for the kindness in no other way?”
Poor Mrs. King was “much tumbled up and down in her own mind;” she
longed to consent, but Cotton’s eye was upon her, and Cotton’s
departure would be an irreparable loss, so she decided to end the
matter in the most summary manner. Plunging a particularly large pin
into her cushioned breast, as if it was a relief to inflict that mock
torture upon herself, she said sharply:
“It is impossible. You can do as you please, Miss Devon, but I prefer
to wash my hands of the affair at once and entirely.”
Christie’s eye went from the figure at her feet to the hard-featured
woman who had been a kind and just mistress until now, and she asked,
anxiously:
“Do you mean that you wash your hands of me also, if I stand by
Rachel?”
“I do. I’m very sorry, but my young ladies must keep respectable
company, or leave my service,” was the brief reply, for Mrs. King grew
grimmer externally as the mental rebellion increased internally.
“Then I will leave it!” cried Christie, with an indignant voice and
eye. “Come, dear, we’ll go together.” And without a look or word for
any in the room, she raised the prostrate girl, and led her out into
the little hall.
There she essayed to comfort her, but before many words had passed her
lips Rachel looked up, and she was silent with surprise, for the face
she saw was neither despairing nor defiant, but beautifully sweet and
clear, as the unfallen spirit of the woman shone through the grateful
eyes, and blessed her for her loyalty.
“Christie, you have done enough for me,” she said. “Go back, and keep
the good place you need, for such are hard to find. I can get on alone;
I’m used to this, and the pain will soon be over.”
“I’ll not go back!” cried Christie, hotly. “I’ll do slop-work and
starve, before I’ll stay with such a narrow-minded, cold-hearted woman.
Come home with me at once, and let us lay our plans together.”
“No, dear; if I wouldn’t go when you first asked me, much less will I
go now, for I’ve done you harm enough already. I never can thank you
for your great goodness to me, never tell you what it has been to me.
We must part now; but some day I’ll come back and show you that I’ve
not forgotten how you loved and helped and trusted me, when all the
others cast me off.”
Vain were Christie’s arguments and appeals. Rachel was immovable, and
all her friend could win from her was a promise to send word, now and
then, how things prospered with her.
“And, Rachel, I charge you to come to me in any strait, no matter what
it is, no matter where I am; for if any thing could break my heart, it
would be to know that you had gone back to the old life, because there
was no one to help and hold you up.”
“I never can go back; you have saved me, Christie, for you love me, you
have faith in me, and that will keep me strong and safe when you are
gone. Oh, my dear, my dear, God bless you for ever and for ever!”
Then Christie, remembering only that they were two loving women, alone
in a world of sin and sorrow, took Rachel in her arms, kissed and cried
over her with sisterly affection, and watched her prayerfully, as she
went away to begin her hard task anew, with nothing but the touch of
innocent lips upon her cheek, the baptism, of tender tears upon her
forehead to keep her from despair.
Still cherishing the hope that Rachel would come back to her, Christie
neither returned to Mrs. King nor sought another place of any sort, but
took home work from a larger establishment, and sat sewing diligently
in her little room, waiting, hoping, longing for her friend. But month
after month went by, and no word, no sign came to comfort her. She
would not doubt, yet she could not help fearing, and in her nightly
prayer no petition was more fervently made than that which asked the
Father of both saint and sinner to keep poor Rachel safe, and bring her
back in his good time.
Never had she been so lonely as now, for Christie had a social heart,
and, having known the joy of a cordial friendship even for a little
while, life seemed very barren to her when she lost it. No new friend
took Rachel’s place, for none came to her, and a feeling of loyalty
kept her from seeking one. But she suffered for the want of genial
society, for all the tenderness of her nature seemed to have been
roused by that brief but most sincere affection. Her hungry heart
clamored for the happiness that was its right, and grew very heavy as
she watched friends or lovers walking in the summer twilight when she
took her evening stroll. Often her eyes followed some humble pair,
longing to bless and to be blessed by the divine passion whose magic
beautifies the little milliner and her lad with the same tender grace
as the poet and the mistress whom he makes immortal in a song. But
neither friend nor lover came to Christie, and she said to herself,
with a sad sort of courage:
“I shall be solitary all my life, perhaps; so the sooner I make up my
mind to it, the easier it will be to bear.”
At Christmas-tide she made a little festival for herself, by giving to
each of the household drudges the most generous gift she could afford,
for no one else thought of them, and having known some of the hardships
of servitude herself, she had much sympathy with those in like case.
Then, with the pleasant recollection of two plain faces, brightened by
gratitude, surprise, and joy, she went out into the busy streets to
forget the solitude she left behind her.
Very gay they were with snow and sleigh-bells, holly-boughs, and
garlands, below, and Christmas sunshine in the winter sky above. All
faces shone, all voices had a cheery ring, and everybody stepped
briskly on errands of good-will. Up and down went Christie, making
herself happy in the happiness of others. Looking in at the
shop-windows, she watched, with interest, the purchases of busy
parents, calculating how best to fill the little socks hung up at home,
with a childish faith that never must be disappointed, no matter how
hard the times might be. She was glad to see so many turkeys on their
way to garnish hospitable tables, and hoped that all the dear home
circles might be found unbroken, though she had place in none. No
Christmas-tree went by leaving a whiff of piny sweetness behind, that
she did not wish it all success, and picture to herself the merry
little people dancing in its light. And whenever she saw a ragged child
eying a window full of goodies, smiling even, while it shivered, she
could not resist playing Santa Claus till her purse was empty, sending
the poor little souls enraptured home with oranges and apples in either
hand, and splendid sweeties in their pockets, for the babies.
No envy mingled with the melancholy that would not be dispelled even by
these gentle acts, for her heart was very tender that night, and if any
one had asked what gifts she desired most, she would have answered with
a look more pathetic than any shivering child had given her:
“I want the sound of a loving voice; the touch of a friendly hand.”
Going home, at last, to the lonely little room where no Christmas fire
burned, no tree shone, no household group awaited her, she climbed the
long, dark stairs, with drops on her cheeks, warmer than any melted
snow-flake could have left, and opening her door paused on the
threshold, smiling with wonder and delight, for in her absence some
gentle spirit had remembered her. A fire burned cheerily upon the
hearth, her lamp was lighted, a lovely rose-tree, in full bloom, filled
the air with its delicate breath, and in its shadow lay a note from
Rachel.
“A merry Christmas and a happy New Year, Christie! Long ago you gave me
your little rose; I have watched and tended it for your sake, dear, and
now when I want to show my love and thankfulness, I give it back again
as my one treasure. I crept in while you were gone, because I feared I
might harm you in some way if you saw me. I longed to stay and tell you
that I am safe and well, and busy, with your good face looking into
mine, but I don’t deserve that yet. Only love me, trust me, pray for
me, and some day you shall know what you have done for me. Till then,
God bless and keep you, dearest friend, your RACHEL.”
Never had sweeter tears fallen than those that dropped upon the little
tree as Christie took it in her arms, and all the rosy clusters leaned
toward her as if eager to deliver tender messages. Surely her wish was
granted now, for friendly hands had been at work for her. Warm against
her heart lay words as precious as if uttered by a loving voice, and
nowhere, on that happy night, stood a fairer Christmas tree than that
which bloomed so beautifully from the heart of a Magdalen who loved
much and was forgiven.