MRS. WILKINS’S MINISTER.
[Illustration: MR. POWER.]
Next day Christie braved the lion in his den, otherwise the flinty
Flint, in her second-class boarding-house, and found that alarm and
remorse had produced a softening effect upon her. She was unfeignedly
glad to see her lost lodger safe, and finding that the new friends were
likely to put her in the way of paying her debts, this much harassed
matron permitted her to pack up her possessions, leaving one trunk as a
sort of hostage. Then, with promises to redeem it as soon as possible,
Christie said good-bye to the little room where she had hoped and
suffered, lived and labored so long, and went joyfully back to the
humble home she had found with the good laundress.
All the following week Christie “chored round,” as Mrs. Wilkins called
the miscellaneous light work she let her do. Much washing, combing, and
clean pinaforing of children fell to her share, and she enjoyed it
amazingly; then, when the elder ones were packed off to school she lent
a hand to any of the numberless tasks housewives find to do from
morning till night. In the afternoon, when other work was done, and
little Vic asleep or happy with her playthings, Christie clapped laces,
sprinkled muslins, and picked out edgings at the great table where Mrs.
Wilkins stood ironing, fluting, and crimping till the kitchen bristled
all over with immaculate frills and flounces.
It was pretty delicate work, and Christie liked it, for Mrs. Wilkins
was an adept at her trade and took as much pride and pleasure in it as
any French blanchisseuse tripping through the streets of Paris with a
tree full of coquettish caps, capes, and petticoats borne before her by
a half invisible boy.
Being women, of course they talked as industriously as they worked;
fingers flew and tongues clacked with equal profit and pleasure, and,
by Saturday, Christie had made up her mind that Mrs. Wilkins was the
most sensible woman she ever knew. Her grammar was an outrage upon the
memory of Lindley Murray, but the goodness of her heart would have done
honor to any saint in the calendar. She was very plain, and her manners
were by no means elegant, but good temper made that homely face most
lovable, and natural refinement of soul made mere external polish of
small account. Her shrewd ideas and odd sayings amused Christie very
much, while her good sense and bright way of looking at things did the
younger woman a world of good.
Mr. Wilkins devoted himself to the making of shoes and the consumption
of food, with the silent regularity of a placid animal. His one
dissipation was tobacco, and in a fragrant cloud of smoke he lived and
moved and had his being so entirely that he might have been described
as a pipe with a man somewhere behind it. Christie once laughingly
spoke of this habit and declared she would try it herself if she
thought it would make her as quiet and undemonstrative as Mr. Wilkins,
who, to tell the truth, made no more impression on her than a fly.
“I don’t approve on’t, but he might do wuss. We all have to have our
comfort somehow, so I let Lisha smoke as much as he likes, and he lets
me gab, so it’s about fair, I reckon,” answered Mrs. Wilkins, from the
suds.
She laughed as she spoke, but something in her face made Christie
suspect that at some period of his life Lisha had done “wuss;” and
subsequent observations confirmed this suspicion and another one
also,—that his good wife had saved him, and was gently easing him back
to self-control and self-respect. But, as old Fuller quaintly says,
“She so gently folded up his faults in silence that few guessed them,”
and loyally paid him that respect which she desired others to bestow.
It was always “Lisha and me,” “I’ll ask my husband” or “Lisha’ll know;
he don’t say much, but he’s a dreadful smart man,” and she kept up the
fiction so dear to her wifely soul by endowing him with her own
virtues, and giving him the credit of her own intelligence.
Christie loved her all the better for this devotion, and for her sake
treated Mr. Wilkins as if he possessed the strength of Samson and the
wisdom of Solomon. He received her respect as if it was his due, and
now and then graciously accorded her a few words beyond the usual
scanty allowance of morning and evening greetings. At his shop all day,
she only saw him at meals and sometimes of an evening, for Mrs. Wilkins
tried to keep him at home safe from temptation, and Christie helped her
by reading, talking, and frolicking with the children, so that he might
find home attractive. He loved his babies and would even relinquish his
precious pipe for a time to ride the little chaps on his foot, or amuse
Vic with shadow rabbit’s on the wall.
At such times the entire content in Mrs. Wilkins’s face made tobacco
fumes endurable, and the burden of a dull man’s presence less
oppressive to Christie, who loved to pay her debts in something besides
money.
As they sat together finishing off some delicate laces that Saturday
afternoon, Mrs. Wilkins said, “Ef it’s fair to-morrow I want you to go
to my meetin’ and hear my minister. It’ll do you good.”
“Who is he?”
“Mr. Power.”
Christie looked rather startled, for she had heard of Thomas Power as a
rampant radical and infidel of the deepest dye, and been warned never
to visit that den of iniquity called his free church.
“Why, Mrs. Wilkins, you don’t mean it!” she said, leaving her lace to
dry at the most critical stage.
“Yee, I do!” answered Mrs. Wilkins, setting down her flat-iron with
emphasis, and evidently preparing to fight valiantly for her minister,
as most women will.
“I beg your pardon; I was a little surprised, for I’d heard all sorts
of things about him,” Christie hastened to say.
“Did you ever hear him, or read any of his writins?” demanded Mrs.
Wilkins, with a calmer air.
“Never.”
“Then don’t judge. You go hear and see that blessed man, and ef you
don’t say he’s the shadder of a great rock in a desert land, I’ll give
up,” cried the good woman, waxing poetical in her warmth.
“I will to please you, if nothing else. I did go once just because I
was told not to; but he did not preach that day and every thing was so
peculiar, I didn’t know whether to like it or be shocked.”
“It is kind of sing’lar at fust, I’m free to confess, and not as
churchy as some folks like. But there ain’t no place but that big
enough to hold the crowds that want to go, for the more he’s abused the
more folks flock to see him. They git their money’s wuth I do believe,
for though there ain’t no pulpits and pews, there’s a sight of
brotherly love round in them seats, and pious practice, as well as
powerful preaching, in that shabby desk. He don’t need no commandments
painted up behind him to read on Sunday, for he keeps ’em in his heart
and life all the week as honest as man can.”
There Mrs. Wilkins paused, flushed and breathless with her defence, and
Christie said, candidly: “I did like the freedom and good-will there,
for people sat where they liked, and no one frowned over shut
pew-doors, at me a stranger. An old black woman sat next me, and said
‘Amen’ when she liked what she heard, and a very shabby young man was
on the other, listening as if his soul was as hungry as his body.
People read books, laughed and cried, clapped when pleased, and hissed
when angry; that I did not like.”
“No more does Mr. Power; he don’t mind the cryin’ and the smilin’ as
it’s nat’ral, but noise and disrespect of no kind ain’t pleasin’ to
him. His own folks behave becomin’, but strangers go and act as they
like, thinkin’ that there ain’t no bounds to the word free. Then we are
picked at for their doin’s, and Mr. Power has to carry other folkses’
sins on his shoulders. But, dear suz, it ain’t much matter after all,
ef the souls is well-meanin’. Children always make a noise a strivin’
after what they want most, and I shouldn’t wonder ef the Lord forgive
all our short-comin’s of that sort, sense we are hankerin’ and reachin’
for the truth.”
“I wish I had heard Mr. Power that day, for I was striving after peace
with all my heart, and he might have given it to me,” said Christie,
interested and impressed with what she heard.
“Wal, no, dear, I guess not. Peace ain’t give to no one all of a
suddin, it gen’lly comes through much tribulation, and the sort that
comes hardest is best wuth havin’. Mr. Power would a’ ploughed and
harrered you, so to speak, and sowed good seed liberal; then ef you
warn’t barren ground things would have throve, and the Lord give you a
harvest accordin’ to your labor. Who did you hear?” asked Mrs. Wilkins,
pausing to starch and clap vigorously.
“A very young man who seemed to be airing his ideas and beliefs in the
frankest manner. He belabored everybody and every thing, upset church
and state, called names, arranged heaven and earth to suit himself, and
evidently meant every word he said. Much of it would have been
ridiculous if the boy had not been so thoroughly in earnest; sincerity
always commands respect, and though people smiled, they liked his
courage, and seemed to think he would make a man when his spiritual
wild oats were sown.”
“I ain’t a doubt on’t. We often have such, and they ain’t all empty
talk, nuther; some of ’em are surprisingly bright, and all mean so well
I don’t never reluct to hear ’em. They must blow off their steam
somewheres, else they’d bust with the big idees a swellin’ in ’em; Mr.
Power knows it and gives ’em the chance they can’t find nowheres else.
’Pears to me,” added Mrs. Wilkins, ironing rapidly as she spoke, “that
folks is very like clothes, and a sight has to be done to keep ’em
clean and whole. All on us has to lend a hand in this dreadful mixed-up
wash, and each do our part, same as you and me is now. There’s
scrubbin’ and bilin’, wrenchin’ and bluein’, dryin’ and foldin’,
ironin’ and polishin’, before any of us is fit for wear a Sunday
mornin’.”
“What part does Mr. Power do?” asked Christie, much amused at this
peculiarly appropriate simile.
“The scrubbin’ and the bilin’; that’s always the hardest and the
hottest part. He starts the dirt and gits the stains out, and leaves
’em ready for other folks to finish off. It ain’t such pleasant work as
hangin’ out, or such pretty work as doin’ up, but some one’s got to do
it, and them that’s strongest does it best, though they don’t git half
so much credit as them as polishes and crimps. That’s showy work, but
it wouldn’t be no use ef the things warn’t well washed fust,” and Mrs.
Wilkins thoughtfully surveyed the snowy muslin cap, with its border
fluted like the petals of a prim white daisy, that hung on her hand.
“I’d like to be a washerwoman of that sort; but as I’m not one of the
strong, I’ll be a laundress, and try to make purity as attractive as
you do,” said Christie, soberly.
“Ah, my dear, it’s warm and wearin’ work I do assure you, and hard to
give satisfaction, try as you may. Crowns of glory ain’t wore in this
world, but it’s my ’pinion that them that does the hard jobs here will
stand a good chance of havin’ extra bright ones when they git through.”
“I know you will,” said Christie, warmly.
“Land alive, child! I warn’t thinking of Cynthy Wilkins, but Mr. Power.
I’ll be satisfied ef I can set low down somewheres and see him git the
meddle. He won’t in this world, but I know there’s rewards savin’ up
for him byme-by.”
“I’ll go to-morrow if it pours!” said Christie, with decision.
“Do, and I’ll lend you my bunnit,” cried Mrs. Wilkins, passing, with
comical rapidity, from crowns of glory to her own cherished head-gear.
“Thank you, but I can’t wear blue, I look as yellow as a dandelion in
it. Mrs. Flint let me have my best things though I offered to leave
them, so I shall be respectable and by-and-by blossom out.”
On the morrow Christie went early, got a good seat, and for half an
hour watched the gathering of the motley congregation that filled the
great hall. Some came in timidly, as if doubtful of their welcome; some
noisily, as if, as Mrs. Wilkins said, they had not learned the wide
difference between liberty and license; many as if eager and curious;
and a large number with the look of children gathering round a family
table ready to be fed, and sure that wholesome food would be
bountifully provided for them.
Christie was struck by the large proportion of young people in the
place, of all classes, both sexes, and strongly contrasting faces.
Delicate girls looking with the sweet wistfulness of maidenly hearts
for something strong to lean upon and love; sad-eyed women turning to
heaven for the consolations or the satisfactions earth could not give
them; anxious mothers perplexed with many cares, trying to find light
and strength; young men with ardent faces, restless, aspiring, and
impetuous, longing to do and dare; tired-looking students, with
perplexed wrinkles on their foreheads, evidently come to see if this
man had discovered the great secrets they were delving after; and
soul-sick people trying this new, and perhaps dangerous medicine, when
others failed to cure. Many earnest, thoughtful men and women were
there, some on the anxious seat, and some already at peace, having
found the clew that leads safely through the labyrinth of life. Here
and there a white head, a placid old face, or one of those fine
countenances that tell, unconsciously, the beautiful story of a
victorious soul.
Some read, some talked, some had flowers in their hands, and all sat at
ease, rich and poor, black and white, young and old, waiting for the
coming of the man who had power to attract and hold so many of his
kind. Christie was so intent on watching those about her that she did
not see him enter, and only knew it by the silence which began just in
front of her, and seemed to flow backward like a wave, leaving a sea of
expectant faces turning to one point. That point was a gray head, just
visible above the little desk which stood in the middle of a great
platform. A vase of lovely flowers was on the little shelf at one side,
a great Bible reposed on the other, and a manuscript lay on the red
slope between.
In a moment Christie forgot every thing else, and waited with a curious
anxiety to see what manner of man this was. Presently he got up with an
open book in his hand, saying, in a strong, cheerful voice: “Let us
sing,” and having read a hymn as if he had composed it, he sat down
again.
Then everybody did sing; not harmoniously, but heartily, led by an
organ, which the voices followed at their own sweet will. At first,
Christie wanted to smile, for some shouted and some hummed, some sat
silent, and others sung sweetly; but before the hymn ended she liked
it, and thought that the natural praise of each individual soul was
perhaps more grateful to the ear of God than masses by great masters,
or psalms warbled tunefully by hired opera singers.
Then Mr. Power rose again, and laying his hands together, with a
peculiarly soft and reverent gesture, lifted up his face and prayed.
Christie had never heard a prayer like that before; so devout, so
comprehensive, and so brief. A quiet talk with God, asking nothing but
more love and duty toward Him and our fellow-men; thanking Him for many
mercies, and confiding all things trustfully to the “dear father and
mother of souls.”
The sermon which followed was as peculiar as the prayer, and as
effective. “One of Power’s judgment-day sermons,” as she heard one man
say to another, when it was over. Christie certainly felt at first as
if kingdoms and thrones were going down, and each man being sent to his
own place. A powerful and popular wrong was arrested, tried, and
sentenced then and there, with a courage and fidelity that made plain
words eloquent, and stern justice beautiful. He did not take David of
old for his text, but the strong, sinful, splendid Davids of our day,
who had not fulfilled the promise of their youth, and whose seeming
success was a delusion and a snare to themselves and others, sure to be
followed by sorrowful abandonment, defeat, and shame. The ashes of the
ancient hypocrites and Pharisees was left in peace, but those now
living were heartily denounced; modern money-changers scourged out of
the temple, and the everlasting truth set up therein.
As he spoke, not loudly nor vehemently, but with the indescribable
effect of inward force and true inspiration, a curious stir went
through the crowd at times, as a great wind sweeps over a corn field,
lifting the broad leaves to the light and testing the strength of root
and stem. People looked at one another with a roused expression; eyes
kindled, heads nodded involuntary approval, and an emphatic, “that’s
so!” dropped from the lips of men who saw their own vague instincts and
silent opinions strongly confirmed and nobly uttered. Consciences
seemed to have been pricked to duty, eyes cleared to see that their
golden idols had feet of clay, and wavering wills strengthened by the
salutary courage and integrity of one indomitable man. Another hymn,
and a benediction that seemed like a fit grace after meat, and then the
crowd poured out; not yawning, thinking of best clothes, or longing for
dinner, but waked up, full of talk, and eager to do something to redeem
the country and the world.
Christie went rapidly home because she could not help it, and burst in
upon Mrs. Wilkins with a face full of enthusiasm, exclaiming, while she
cast off her bonnet as if her head had outgrown it since she left:
“It was splendid! I never heard such a sermon before, and I’ll never go
to church anywhere else.”
“I knew it! ain’t it fillin’? don’t it give you a kind of spirital
h’ist, and make things wuth more somehow?” cried Mrs. Wilkins,
gesticulating with the pepper-pot in a way which did not improve the
steak she was cooking, and caused great anguish to the noses of her
offspring, who were watching the operation.
Quite deaf to the chorus of sneezes which accompanied her words,
Christie answered, brushing back her hair, as if to get a better
out-look at creation generally:
“Oh, yes, indeed! At first it was rather terrible, and yet so true I
wouldn’t change a word of it. But I don’t wonder he is misunderstood,
belied, and abused. He tells the truth so plainly, and lets in the
light so clearly, that hypocrites and sinners must fear and hate him. I
think he was a little hard and unsparing, sometimes, though I don’t
know enough to judge the men and measures he condemned. I admire him
very much, but I should be afraid of him if I ever saw him nearer.”
“No, you wouldn’t; not a grain. You hear him preach agin and you’ll
find him as gentle as a lamb. Strong folks is apt to be ruther ha’sh at
times; they can’t help it no more than this stove can help scorchin’
the vittles when it gits red hot. Dinner’s ready, so set right up and
tell me all about it,” said Mrs. Wilkins, slapping the steak on to the
platter, and beginning to deal out fried potatoes all round with
absent-minded lavishness.
Christie talked, and the good soul enjoyed that far more than her
dinner, for she meant to ask Mr. Power to help her find the right sort
of home for the stranger whose unfitness for her present place was
every day made more apparent to the mind of her hostess.
“What took you there first?” asked Christie, still wondering at Mrs.
Wilkins’s choice of a minister.
“The Lord, my dear,” answered the good woman, in a tone of calm
conviction. “I’d heard of him, and I always have a leanin’ towards them
that’s reviled; so one Sabbath I felt to go, and did. ‘That’s the
gospel for me,’ says I, ‘my old church ain’t big enough now, and I
ain’t goin’ to set and nod there any longer,’ and I didn’t.”
“Hadn’t you any doubts about it, any fears of going wrong or being
sorry afterwards?” asked Christie, who believed, as many do, that
religion could not be attained without much tribulation of some kind.
“In some things folks is led; I be frequent, and when them leadin’s
come I don’t ask no questions but jest foller, and it always turns out
right.”
“I wish I could be led.”
“You be, my dear, every day of your life only you don’t see it. When
you are doubtful, set still till the call comes, then git up and walk
whichever way it says, and you won’t fall. You’ve had bread and water
long enough, now you want meat and wine a spell; take it, and when it’s
time for milk and honey some one will fetch ’em ef you keep your table
ready. The Lord feeds us right; it’s we that quarrel with our vittles.”
“I will,” said Christie, and began at once to prepare her little board
for the solid food of which she had had a taste that day.
That afternoon Mrs. Wilkins took her turn at church-going, saw Mr.
Power, told Christie’s story in her best style, and ended by saying:
“She’s true grit, I do assure you, sir. Willin’ to work, but she’s seen
the hard side of things and got kind of discouraged. Soul and body both
wants tinkerin’ up, and I don’t know anybody who can do the job better
’n you can.”
“Very well, I’ll come and see her,” answered Mr. Power, and Mrs.
Wilkins went home well satisfied.
He kept his word, and about the middle of the week came walking in upon
them as they were at work.
“Don’t let the irons cool,” he said, and sitting down in the kitchen
began to talk as comfortably as if in the best parlor; more so,
perhaps, for best parlors are apt to have a depressing effect upon the
spirits, while the mere sight of labor is exhilarating to energetic
minds.
He greeted Christie kindly, and then addressed himself to Mrs. Wilkins
on various charitable matters, for he was a minister at large, and she
one of his almoners. Christie could really see him now, for when he
preached she forgot the man in the sermon, and thought of him only as a
visible conscience.
A sturdy man of fifty, with a keen, brave face, penetrating eyes, and
mouth a little grim; but a voice so resonant and sweet it reminded one
of silver trumpets, and stirred and won the hearer with irresistible
power. Rough gray hair, and all the features rather rugged, as if the
Great Sculptor had blocked out a grand statue, and left the man’s own
soul to finish it.
Had Christie known that he came to see her she would have been ill at
ease; but Mrs. Wilkins had kept her own counsel, so when Mr. Power
turned to Christie, saying:
“My friend here tells me you want something to do. Would you like to
help a Quaker lady with her housework, just out of town?”
She answered readily: “Yes, sir, any thing that is honest.”
“Not as a servant, exactly, but companion and helper. Mrs. Sterling is
a dear old lady, and the place a pleasant little nest. It is good to be
there, and I think you’ll say so if you go.”
“It sounds pleasant. When shall I go?”
Mr. Power smiled at her alacrity, but the longing look in her eyes
explained it, for he saw at a glance that her place was not here.
“I will write at once and let you know how matters are settled. Then
you shall try it, and if it is not what you want, we will find you
something else. There’s plenty to do, and nothing pleasanter than to
put the right pair of hands to the right task. Good-by; come and see me
if the spirit moves, and don’t let go of Mrs. Wilkins till you lay hold
of a better friend, if you can find one.”
Then he shook hands cordially, and went walking out again into the wild
March weather as if he liked it.
“Were you afraid of him?” asked Mrs. Wilkins.
“I forgot all about it: he looked so kind and friendly. But I shouldn’t
like to have those piercing eyes of his fixed on me long if I had any
secret on my conscience,” answered Christie.
“You ain’t nothin’ to fear. He liked your way of speakin’ fust rate, I
see that, and you’ll be all right now he’s took hold.”
“Do you know Mrs. Sterling?”
“Only by sight, but she’s a sweet appearin’ woman, and I wouldn’t ask
nothin’ better ’n to see more of her,” said Mrs. Wilkins, warmly,
fearing Christie’s heart might misgive her.
But it did not, and when a note came saying Mrs. Sterling would be
ready for her the next week, she seemed quite content with every thing,
for though the wages were not high she felt that country air and quiet
were worth more to her just then than money, and that Wilkinses were
better taken homoeopathically.
The spirit did move her to go and see Mr. Power, but she could not make
up her mind to pass that invisible barrier which stands between so many
who could give one another genuine help if they only dared to ask it.
But when Sunday came she went to church, eager for more, and thankful
that she knew where to go for it.
This was a very different sermon from the other, and Christie felt as
if he preached it for her alone. “Keep innocency and take heed to the
thing that is right, for this will bring a man peace at the last,”
might have been the text, and Mr. Power treated it as if he had known
all the trials and temptations that made it hard to live up to.
Justice and righteous wrath possessed him before, now mercy and
tenderest sympathy for those who faltered in well-doing, and the stern
judge seemed changed to a pitiful father. But better than the pity was
the wise counsel, the cheering words, and the devout surrender of the
soul to its best instincts; its close communion with its Maker,
unchilled by fear, untrammelled by the narrowness of sect or
superstition, but full and free and natural as the breath of life.
As she listened Christie felt as if she was climbing up from a solitary
valley, through mist and shadow toward a mountain top, where, though
the way might be rough and strong winds blow, she would get a wider
outlook over the broad earth, and be nearer the serene blue sky. For
the first time in her life religion seemed a visible and vital thing; a
power that she could grasp and feel, take into her life and make her
daily bread. Not a vague, vast idea floating before her, now beautiful,
now terrible, always undefined and far away.
She was strangely and powerfully moved that day, for the ploughing had
begun; and when the rest stood up for the last hymn, Christie could
only bow her head and let the uncontrollable tears flow down like
summer rain, while her heart sang with new aspiration:
“Nearer, my God, to thee,
E’en though a cross it be
That raiseth me,
Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my God, to thee.
Nearer to thee!”
Sitting with her hand before her eyes, she never stirred till the sound
of many feet told her that service was done. Then she wiped her eyes,
dropped her veil, and was about to rise when she saw a little bunch of
flowers between the leaves of the hymn book lying open in her lap. Only
a knot of violets set in their own broad leaves, but blue as friendly
eyes looking into hers, and sweet as kind words whispered in her ear.
She looked about her hoping to detect and thank the giver; but all
faces were turned the other way, and all feet departing rapidly.
Christie followed with a very grateful thought in her heart for this
little kindness from some unknown friend; and, anxious to recover
herself entirely before she faced Mrs. Wilkins, she took a turn in the
park.
The snow was gone, high winds had dried the walk, and a clear sky
overhead made one forget sodden turf and chilly air. March was going
out like a lamb, and Christie enjoyed an occasional vernal whiff from
far-off fields and wakening woods, as she walked down the broad mall
watching the buds on the boughs, and listening to the twitter of the
sparrows, evidently discussing the passers-by as they sat at the doors
of their little mansions.
Presently she turned to walk back again and saw Mr. Power coming toward
her. She was glad, for all her fear had vanished now, and she wanted to
thank him for the sermon that had moved her so deeply. He shook hands
in his cordial way, and, turning, walked with her, beginning at once to
talk of her affairs as if interested in them.
“Are you ready for the new experiment?” he asked.
“Quite ready, sir; very glad to go, and very much obliged to you for
your kindness in providing for me.”
“That is what we were put into the world for, to help one another. You
can pass on the kindness by serving my good friends who, in return,
will do their best for you.”
“That’s so pleasant! I always knew there were plenty of good, friendly
people in the world, only I did not seem to find them often, or be able
to keep them long when I did. Is Mr. Sterling an agreeable old man?”
“Very agreeable, but not old. David is about thirty-one or two, I
think. He is the son of my friend, the husband died some years ago. I
thought I mentioned it.”
“You said in your note that Mr. Sterling was a florist, and might like
me to help in the green-house, if I was willing. It must be lovely
work, and I should like it very much.”
“Yes, David devotes himself to his flowers, and leads a very quiet
life. You may think him rather grave and blunt at first, but you’ll
soon find him out and get on comfortably, for he is a truly excellent
fellow, and my right-hand man in good works.”
A curious little change had passed over Christie’s face during these
last questions and answers, unconscious, but quite observable to keen
eyes like Mr. Power’s. Surprise and interest appeared first, then a
shadow of reserve as if the young woman dropped a thin veil between
herself and the young man, and at the last words a half smile and a
slight raising of the brows seemed to express the queer mixture of pity
and indifference with which we are all apt to regard “excellent
fellows” and “amiable girls.” Mr. Power understood the look, and went
on more confidentially than he had at first intended, for he did not
want Christie to go off with a prejudice in her mind which might do
both David and herself injustice.
“People sometimes misjudge him, for he is rather old-fashioned in
manner and plain in speech, and may seem unsocial, because he does not
seek society. But those who know the cause of this forgive any little
short-comings for the sake of the genuine goodness of the man. David
had a great trouble some years ago and suffered much. He is learning to
bear it bravely, and is the better for it, though the memory of it is
still bitter, and the cross hard to bear even with pride to help him
hide it, and principle to keep him from despair.”
Mr. Power glanced at Christie as he paused, and was satisfied with the
effect of his words, for interest, pity, and respect shone in her face,
and proved that he had touched the right string. She seemed to feel
that this little confidence was given for a purpose, and showed that
she accepted it as a sort of gage for her own fidelity to her new
employers.
“Thank you, sir, I shall remember,” she said, with her frank eyes
lifted gravely to his own. “I like to work for people whom I can
respect,” she added, “and will bear with any peculiarities of Mr.
Sterling’s without a thought of complaint. When a man has suffered
through one woman, all women should be kind and patient with him, and
try to atone for the wrong which lessens his respect and faith in
them.”
“There you are right; and in this case all women should be kind, for
David pities and protects womankind as the only retaliation for the
life-long grief one woman brought upon him. That’s not a common
revenge, is it?”
“It’s beautiful!” cried Christie, and instantly David was a hero.
“At one time it was an even chance whether that trouble sent David to
‘the devil,’ as he expressed it, or made a man of him. That little
saint of a mother kept him safe till the first desperation was over,
and now he lives for her, as he ought. Not so romantic an ending as a
pistol or Byronic scorn for the world in general and women in
particular, but dutiful and brave, since it often takes more courage to
live than to die.”
“Yes, sir,” said Christie, heartily, though her eyes fell, remembering
how she had failed with far less cause for despair than David.
They were at the gate now, and Mr. Power left her, saying, with a
vigorous hand-shake:
“Best wishes for a happy summer. I shall come sometimes to see how you
prosper; and remember, if you tire of it and want to change, let me
know, for I take great satisfaction in putting the right people in the
right places. Good-by, and God be with you.”