BEGINNING AGAIN.
[Illustration: MRS. STERLING.]
It was an April day when Christie went to her new home. Warm rains had
melted the last trace of snow, and every bank was full of pricking
grass-blades, brave little pioneers and heralds of the Spring. The
budding elm boughs swung in the wind; blue-jays screamed among the
apple-trees; and robins chirped shrilly, as if rejoicing over winter
hardships safely passed. Vernal freshness was in the air despite its
chill, and lovely hints of summer time were everywhere.
These welcome sights and sounds met Christie, as she walked down the
lane, and, coming to a gate, paused there to look about her. An
old-fashioned cottage stood in the midst of a garden just awakening
from its winter sleep. One elm hung protectingly over the low roof,
sunshine lay warmly on it, and at every window flowers’ bright faces
smiled at the passer-by invitingly.
On one side glittered a long green-house, and on the other stood a
barn, with a sleek cow ruminating in the yard, and an inquiring horse
poking his head out of his stall to view the world. Many comfortable
gray hens were clucking and scratching about the hay-strewn floor, and
a flock of doves sat cooing on the roof.
A quiet, friendly place it looked; for nothing marred its peace, and
the hopeful, healthful spirit of the season seemed to haunt the spot.
Snow-drops and crocuses were up in one secluded nook; a plump maltese
cat sat purring in the porch; and a dignified old dog came marching
down the walk to escort the stranger in. With a brightening face
Christie went up the path, and tapped at the quaint knocker, hoping
that the face she was about to see would be in keeping with the
pleasant place.
She was not disappointed, for the dearest of little Quaker ladies
opened to her, with such an air of peace and good-will that the veriest
ruffian, coming to molest or make afraid, would have found it
impossible to mar the tranquillity of that benign old face, or disturb
one fold of the soft muslin crossed upon her breast.
“I come from Mr. Power, and I have a note for Mrs. Sterling,” began
Christie in her gentlest tone, as her last fear vanished at sight of
that mild maternal figure.
“I am she; come in, friend; I am glad to see thee,” said the old lady,
smiling placidly, as she led the way into a room whose principal
furniture seemed to be books, flowers, and sunshine.
The look, the tone, the gentle “thee,” went straight to Christie’s
heart; and, while Mrs. Sterling put on her spectacles and slowly read
the note, she stroked the cat and said to herself: “Surely, I have
fallen among a set of angels. I thought Mrs. Wilkins a sort of saint,
Mr. Power was an improvement even upon that good soul, and if I am not
mistaken this sweet little lady is the best and dearest of all. I do
hope she will like me.”
“It is quite right, my dear, and I am most glad to see thee; for we
need help at this season of the year, and have had none for several
weeks. Step up to the room at the head of the stairs, and lay off thy
things. Then, if thee is not tired, I will give thee a little job with
me in the kitchen,” said the old lady with a kindly directness which
left no room for awkwardness on the new-comer’s part.
Up went Christie, and after a hasty look round a room as plain and
white and still as a nun’s cell, she whisked on a working-apron and ran
down again, feeling, as she fancied the children did in the fairy tale,
when they first arrived at the house of the little old woman who lived
in the wood.
Mrs. Wilkins’s kitchen was as neat as a room could be, wherein six
children came and went, but this kitchen was tidy with the immaculate
order of which Shakers and Quakers alone seem to possess the secret,—a
fragrant, shining cleanliness, that made even black kettles ornamental
and dish-pans objects of interest. Nothing burned or boiled over,
though the stove was full of dinner-pots and skillets. There was no
litter or hurry, though the baking of cake and pies was going on, and
when Mrs. Sterling put a pan of apples, and a knife into her new
assistant’s hands, saying in a tone that made the request a favor,
“Will thee kindly pare these for me?” Christie wondered what would
happen if she dropped a seed upon the floor, or did not cut the apples
into four exact quarters.
“I never shall suit this dear prim soul,” she thought, as her eye went
from Puss, sedately perched on one small mat, to the dog dozing upon
another, and neither offering to stir from their own dominions.
This dainty nicety amused her at first, but she liked it, and very soon
her thoughts went back to the old times when she worked with Aunt
Betsey, and learned the good old-fashioned arts which now were to prove
her fitness for this pleasant place.
Mrs. Sterling saw the shadow that crept into Christie’s face, and led
the chat to cheerful things, not saying much herself, but beguiling the
other to talk, and listening with an interest that made it easy to go
on.
Mr. Power and the Wilkinses made them friends very soon; and in an hour
or two Christie was moving about the kitchen as if she had already
taken possession of her new kingdom.
“Thee likes housework I think,” said Mrs. Sterling, as she watched her
hang up a towel to dry, and rinse her dish-cloth when the cleaning up
was done.
“Oh, yes! if I need not do it with a shiftless Irish girl to drive me
distracted by pretending to help. I have lived out, and did not find it
hard while I had my good Hepsey. I was second girl, and can set a table
in style. Shall I try now?” she asked, as the old lady went into a
little dining-room with fresh napkins in her hand.
“Yes, but we have no style here. I will show thee once, and hereafter
it will be thy work, as thy feet are younger than mine.”
A nice old-fashioned table was soon spread, and Christie kept smiling
at the contrast between this and Mrs. Stuart’s. Chubby little pitchers
appeared, delicate old glass, queer china, and tiny tea-spoons; linen
as smooth as satin, and a quaint tankard that might have come over in
the “May-flower.”
“Now, will thee take that pitcher of water to David’s room? It is at
the top of the house, and may need a little dusting. I have not been
able to attend to it as I would like since I have been alone,” said
Mrs. Sterling.
Rooms usually betray something of the character and tastes of their
occupants, and Christie paused a moment as she entered David’s, to look
about her with feminine interest.
It was the attic, and extended the whole length of the house. One end
was curtained off as a bedroom, and she smiled at its austere
simplicity.
A gable in the middle made a sunny recess, where were stored bags and
boxes of seed, bunches of herbs, and shelves full of those tiny pots in
which baby plants are born and nursed till they can grow alone.
The west end was evidently the study, and here Christie took a good
look as she dusted tidily. The furniture was nothing, only an old sofa,
with the horsehair sticking out in tufts here and there; an antique
secretary; and a table covered with books. As she whisked the duster
down the front of the ancient piece of furniture, one of the doors in
the upper half swung open, and Christie saw three objects that
irresistibly riveted her eyes for a moment. A broken fan, a bundle of
letters tied up with a black ribbon, and a little work-basket in which
lay a fanciful needle-book with “Letty” embroidered on it in faded
silk.
“Poor David, that is his little shrine, and I have no right to see it,”
thought Christie, shutting the door with self-reproachful haste.
At the table she paused again, for books always attracted her, and here
she saw a goodly array whose names were like the faces of old friends,
because she remembered them in her father’s library.
Faust was full of ferns, Shakspeare, of rough sketches of the men and
women whom he has made immortal. Saintly Herbert lay side by side with
Saint Augustine’s confessions. Milton and Montaigne stood socially
together, and Andersen’s lovely “Märchen” fluttered its pictured leaves
in the middle of an open Plato; while several books in unknown tongues
were half-hidden by volumes of Browning, Keats, and Coleridge.
In the middle of this fine society, slender and transparent as the
spirit of a shape, stood a little vase holding one half-opened rose,
fresh and fragrant as if just gathered.
Christie smiled as she saw it, and wondered if the dear, dead, or false
woman had been fond of roses.
Then her eye went to the mantel-piece, just above the table, and she
laughed; for, on it stood three busts, idols evidently, but very shabby
ones; for Göthe’s nose was broken, Schiller’s head cracked visibly, and
the dust of ages seemed to have settled upon Linnæus in the middle. On
the wall above them hung a curious old picture of a monk kneeling in a
devout ecstasy, while the face of an angel is dimly seen through the
radiance that floods the cell with divine light. Portraits of Mr. Power
and Martin Luther stared thoughtfully at one another from either side,
as if making up their minds to shake hands in spite of time and space.
“Melancholy, learned, and sentimental,” said Christie to herself, as
she settled David’s character after these discoveries.
The sound of a bell made her hasten down, more curious than ever to see
if this belief was true.
“Perhaps thee had better step out and call my son. Sometimes he does
not hear the bell when he is busy. Thee will find my garden-hood and
shawl behind the door,” said Mrs. Sterling, presently; for punctuality
was a great virtue in the old lady’s eyes.
Christie demurely tied on the little pumpkin-hood, wrapped the gray
shawl about her, and set out to find her “master,” as she had a fancy
to call this unknown David.
From the hints dropped by Mr. Power, and her late discoveries, she had
made a hero for herself; a sort of melancholy Jaques; sad and pale and
stern; retired from the world to nurse his wounds in solitude. She
rather liked this picture; for romance dies hard in a woman, and, spite
of her experiences, Christie still indulged in dreams and fancies. “It
will be so interesting to see how he bears his secret sorrow. I am fond
of woe; but I do hope he won’t be too lackadaisical, for I never could
abide that sort of blighted being.”
Thinking thus, she peeped here and there, but saw no one in yard or
barn, except a workman scraping the mould off his boots near the
conservatory.
“This David is among the flowers, I fancy; I will just ask, and not
bolt in, as he does not know me. “Where is Mr. Sterling?” added
Christie aloud, as she approached.
The man looked up, and a smile came into his eyes, as he glanced from
the old hood to the young face inside. Then he took off his hat, and
held out his hand, saying with just his mother’s simple directness:
“I am David; and this is Christie Devon, I know. How do you do?”
“Yes; dinner’s ready,” was all she could reply, for the discovery that
this was the “master,” nearly took her breath away. Not the faintest
trace of the melancholy Jaques about him; nothing interesting,
romantic, pensive, or even stern. Only a broad-shouldered,
brown-bearded man, with an old hat and coat, trousers tucked into his
boots, fresh mould on the hand he had given her to shake, and the
cheeriest voice she had ever heard.
What a blow it was to be sure! Christie actually felt vexed with him
for disappointing her so, and could not recover herself, but stood red
and awkward, till, with a last scrape of his boots, David said with
placid brevity:
“Well, shall we go in?”
Christie walked rapidly into the house, and by the time she got there
the absurdity of her fancy struck her, and she stifled a laugh in the
depths of the little pumpkin-hood, as she hung it up. Then, assuming
her gravest air, she went to give the finishing touches to dinner.
Ten minutes later she received another surprise; for David appeared
washed, brushed, and in a suit of gray,—a personable gentleman, quite
unlike the workman in the yard.
Christie gave one look, met a pair of keen yet kind eyes with a
suppressed laugh in them, and dropped her own, to be no more lifted up
till dinner was done.
It was a very quiet meal, for no one said much; and it was evidently
the custom of the house to eat silently, only now and then saying a few
friendly words, to show that the hearts were social if the tongues were
not.
On the present occasion this suited Christie; and she ate her dinner
without making any more discoveries, except that the earth-stained
hands were very clean now, and skilfully supplied her wants before she
could make them known.
As they rose from table, Mrs. Sterling said: “Davy, does thee want any
help this afternoon?”
“I shall be very glad of some in about an hour if thee can spare it,
mother.”
“I can, dear.”
“Do you care for flowers?” asked David, turning to Christie, “because
if you do not, this will be a very trying place for you.”
“I used to love them dearly; but I have not had any for so long I
hardly remember how they look,” answered Christie with a sigh, as she
recalled Rachel’s roses, dead long ago. “Shy, sick, and sad; poor soul,
we must lend a hand and cheer her up a bit” thought David, as he
watched her eyes turn toward the green tilings in the windows with a
bright, soft look, he liked to see.
“Come to the conservatory in an hour, and I’ll show you the best part
of a ‘German,’” he said, with a nod and a smile, as he went away,
beginning to whistle like a boy when the door was shut behind him.
“What did he mean?” thought Christie, as she helped clear the table,
and put every thing in Pimlico order.
She was curious to know, and when Mrs. Sterling said: “Now, my dear, I
am going to take my nap, and thee can help David if thee likes,” she
was quite ready to try the new work.
She would have been more than woman if she had not first slipped
upstairs to smooth her hair, put on a fresh collar, and a black silk
apron with certain effective frills and pockets, while a scarlet
rigolette replaced the hood, and lent a little color to her pale
cheeks.
“I am a poor ghost of what I was,” she thought; “but that’s no matter:
few can be pretty, any one can be neat, and that is more than ever
necessary here.”
Then she went away to the conservatory, feeling rather oppressed with
the pity and sympathy, for which there was no call, and fervently
wishing that David would not be so comfortable, for he ate a hearty
dinner, laughed four times, and whistled as no heart-broken man would
dream of doing.
No one was visible as she went in, and walking slowly down the green
aisle, she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the lovely place. The
damp, sweet air made summer there, and a group of slender, oriental
trees whispered in the breath of wind that blew in from an open sash.
Strange vines and flowers hung overhead; banks of azaleas, ruddy,
white, and purple, bloomed in one place; roses of every hue turned
their lovely faces to the sun; ranks of delicate ferns, and heaths with
their waxen bells, were close by; glowing geraniums and stately lilies
side by side; savage-looking scarlet flowers with purple hearts, or
orange spikes rising from leaves mottled with strange colors; dusky
passion-flowers, and gay nasturtiums climbing to the roof. All manner
of beautiful and curious plants were there; and Christie walked among
them, as happy as a child who finds its playmates again.
Coming to a bed of pansies she sat down on a rustic chair, and, leaning
forward, feasted her eyes on these her favorites. Her face grew young
as she looked, her hands touched them with a lingering tenderness as if
to her they were half human, and her own eyes were so busy enjoying the
gold and purple spread before her, that she did not see another pair
peering at her over an unneighborly old cactus, all prickles, and queer
knobs. Presently a voice said at her elbow:
“You look as if you saw something beside pansies there.”
David spoke so quietly that it did not startle her, and she answered
before she had time to feel ashamed of her fancy.
“I do; for, ever since I was a child, I always see a little face when I
look at this flower. Sometimes it is a sad one, sometimes it’s merry,
often roguish, but always a dear little face; and when I see so many
together, it’s like a flock of children, all nodding and smiling at me
at once.”
“So it is!” and David nodded, and smiled himself, as he handed her two
or three of the finest, as if it was as natural a thing as to put a
sprig of mignonette in his own button-hole.
Christie thanked him, and then jumped up, remembering that she came
there to work, not to dream. He seemed to understand, and went into a
little room near by, saying, as he pointed to a heap of gay flowers on
the table:
“These are to be made into little bouquets for a ‘German’ to-night. It
is pretty work, and better fitted for a woman’s fingers than a man’s.
This is all you have to do, and you can use your taste as to colors.”
While he spoke David laid a red and white carnation on a bit of smilax,
tied them together, twisted a morsel of silver foil about the stems,
and laid it before Christie as a sample.
“Yes, I can do that, and shall like it very much,” she said, burying
her nose in the mass of sweetness before her, and feeling as if her new
situation grew pleasanter every minute.
“Here is the apron my mother uses, that bit of silk will soon be
spoilt, for the flowers are wet,” and David gravely offered her a large
checked pinafore.
Christie could not help laughing as she put it on: all this was so
different from the imaginary picture she had made. She was
disappointed, and yet she began to feel as if the simple truth was
better than the sentimental fiction; and glanced up at David
involuntarily to see if there were any traces of interesting woe about
him.
But he was looking at her with the steady, straight-forward look which
she liked so much, yet could not meet just yet; and all she saw was
that he was smiling also with an indulgent expression as if she was a
little girl whom he was trying to amuse.
“Make a few, and I’ll be back directly when I have attended to another
order,” and he went away thinking Christie’s face was very like the
pansies they had been talking about,—one of the sombre ones with a
bright touch of gold deep down in the heart, for thin and pale as the
face was, it lighted up at a kind word, and all the sadness vanished
out of the anxious eyes when the frank laugh came.
Christie fell to work with a woman’s interest in such a pleasant task,
and soon tied and twisted skilfully, exercising all her taste in
contrasts, and the pretty little conceits flower-lovers can produce.
She was so interested that presently she began to hum half
unconsciously, as she was apt to do when happily employed:
“Welcome, maids of honor,
You do bring
In the spring,
And wait upon her.
She has virgins many,
Fresh and fair,
Yet you are
More sweet than any.”
There she stopped, for David’s step drew near, and she remembered where
she was.
“The last verse is the best in that little poem. Have you forgotten
it?” he said, pleased and surprised to find the new-comer singing
Herrick’s lines “To Violets.” “Almost; my father used to say that when
we went looking for early violets, and these lovely ones reminded me of
it,” explained Christie, rather abashed.
[Illustration: DAVID AND CHRISTIE IN THE GREENHOUSE.]
As if to put her at ease David added, as he laid another handful of
double-violets on the table:
“‘Y’ are the maiden posies,
And so graced,
To be placed
Fore damask roses.
Yet, though thus respected,
By and by
Ye do lie,
Poor girls, neglected.’
“I always think of them as pretty, modest maids after that, and can’t
bear to throw them away, even when faded.”
Christie hoped he did not think her sentimental, and changed the
conversation by pointing to her work, and saying, in a business-like
way:
“Will these do? I have varied the posies as much as possible, so that
they may suit all sorts of tastes and whims. I never went to a ‘German’
myself; but I have looked on, and remember hearing the young people say
the little bouquets didn’t mean any thing, so I tried to make these
expressive.”
“Well, I should think you had succeeded excellently, and it is a very
pretty fancy. Tell me what some of them mean: will you?”
“You should know better than I, being a florist,” said Christie, glad
to see he approved of her work.
“I can grow the flowers, but not read them,” and David looked rather
depressed by his own ignorance of those delicate matters.
Still with the business-like air, Christie held up one after another of
the little knots, saying soberly, though her eyes smiled:
“This white one might be given to a newly engaged girl, as suggestive
of the coming bridal. That half-blown bud would say a great deal from a
lover to his idol; and this heliotrope be most encouraging to a timid
swain. Here is a rosy daisy for some merry little damsel; there is a
scarlet posy for a soldier; this delicate azalea and fern for some
lovely creature just out; and there is a bunch of sober pansies for a
spinster, if spinsters go to ‘Germans.’ Heath, scentless but pretty,
would do for many; these Parma violets for one with a sorrow; and this
curious purple flower with arrow-shaped stamens would just suit a
handsome, sharp-tongued woman, if any partner dared give it to her.”
David laughed, as his eye went from the flowers to Christie’s face, and
when she laid down the last breast-knot, looking as if she would like
the chance of presenting it to some one she knew, he seemed much
amused.
“If the beaux and belles at this party have the wit to read your
posies, my fortune will be made, and you will have your hands full
supplying compliments, declarations, rebukes, and criticisms for the
fashionable butterflies. I wish I could put consolation, hope, and
submission into my work as easily, but I am afraid I can’t,” he added a
moment afterward with a changed face, as he began to lay the loveliest
white flowers into a box.
“Those are not for a wedding, then?”
“For a dead baby; and I can’t seem to find any white and sweet enough.”
“You know the people?” asked Christie, with the sympathetic tone in her
voice.
“Never saw or heard of them till to-day. Isn’t it enough to know that
‘baby’s dead,’ as the poor man said, to make one feel for them?”
“Of course it is; only you seemed so interested in arranging the
flowers, I naturally thought it was for some friend,” Christie answered
hastily, for David looked half indignant at her question.
“I want them to look lovely and comforting when the mother opens the
box, and I don’t seem to have the right flowers. Will you give it a
touch? women have a tender way of doing such things that we can never
learn.”
“I don’t think I can improve it, unless I add another sort of flower
that seems appropriate: may I?”
“Any thing you can find.”
Christie waited for no more, but ran out of the greenhouse to David’s
great surprise, and presently came hurrying back with a handful of
snow-drops.
“Those are just what I wanted, but I didn’t know the little dears were
up yet! You shall put them in, and I know they will suggest what you
hope to these poor people,” he said approvingly, as he placed the box
before her, and stood by watching her adjust the little sheaf of pale
flowers tied up with a blade of grass. She added a frail fern or two,
and did give just the graceful touch here and there which would speak
to the mother’s sore heart of the tender thought some one had taken for
her dead darling.
The box was sent away, and Christie went on with her work, but that
little task performed together seemed to have made them friends; and,
while David tied up several grand bouquets at the same table, they
talked as if the strangeness was fast melting away from their short
acquaintance.
Christie’s own manners were so simple that simplicity in others always
put her at her ease: kindness soon banished her reserve, and the desire
to show that she was grateful for it helped her to please. David’s
bluntness was of such a gentle sort that she soon got used to it, and
found it a pleasant contrast to the polite insincerity so common. He
was as frank and friendly as a boy, yet had a certain paternal way with
him which rather annoyed her at first, and made her feel as if he
thought her a mere girl, while she was very sure he could not be but a
year or two older than herself.
“I’d rather he’d be masterful, and order me about,” she thought, still
rather regretting the “blighted being” she had not found.
In spite of this she spent a pleasant afternoon, sitting in that sunny
place, handling flowers, asking questions about them, and getting the
sort of answers she liked; not dry botanical names and facts, but all
the delicate traits, curious habits, and poetical romances of the sweet
things, as if the speaker knew and loved them as friends, not merely
valued them as merchandise.
They had just finished when the great dog came bouncing in with a
basket in his mouth.
“Mother wants eggs: will you come to the barn and get them? Hay is
wholesome, and you can feed the doves if you like,” said David, leading
the way with Bran rioting about him.
“Why don’t he offer to put up a swing for me, or get me a doll? It’s
the pinafore that deceives him. Never mind: I rather like it after
all,” thought Christie; but she left the apron behind her, and followed
with the most dignified air.
It did not last long, however, for the sights and sounds that greeted
her, carried her back to the days of egg-hunting in Uncle Enos’s big
barn; and, before she knew it, she was rustling through the hay mows,
talking to the cow and receiving the attentions of Bran with a
satisfaction it was impossible to conceal.
The hens gathered about her feet cocking their expectant eyes at her;
the doves came circling round her head; the cow stared placidly, and
the inquisitive horse responded affably when she offered him a handful
of hay.
“How tame they all are! I like animals, they are so contented and
intelligent,” she said, as a plump dove lit on her shoulder with an
impatient coo.
“That was Kitty’s pet, she always fed the fowls. Would you like to do
it?” and David offered a little measure of oats.
“Very much;” and Christie began to scatter the grain, wondering who
“Kitty” was.
As if he saw the wish in her face, David added, while he shelled corn
for the hens:
“She was the little girl who was with us last. Her father kept her in a
factory, and took all her wages, barely giving her clothes and food
enough to keep her alive. The poor child ran away, and was trying to
hide when Mr. Power found and sent her here to be cared for.”
“As he did me?” said Christie quickly.
“Yes, that’s a way he has.”
“A very kind and Christian way. Why didn’t she stay?”
“Well, it was rather quiet for the lively little thing, and rather too
near the city, so we got a good place up in the country where she could
go to school and learn housework. The mill had left her no time for
these things, and at fifteen she was as ignorant as a child.”
“You must miss her.”
“I do very much.”
“Was she pretty?”
“She looked like a little rose sometimes,” and David smiled to himself
as he fed the gray hens.
Christie immediately made a picture of the “lively little thing” with a
face “like a rose,” and was uncomfortably conscious that she did not
look half as well feeding doves as Kitty must have done.
Just then David handed her the basket, saying in the paternal way that
half amused, half piqued her: “It, is getting too chilly for you here:
take these in please, and I’ll bring the milk directly.”
In spite of herself she smiled, as a sudden vision of the elegant Mr.
Fletcher, devotedly carrying her book or beach-basket, passed through
her mind; then hastened to explain the smile, for David lifted his
brows inquiringly, and glanced about him to see what amused her.
“I beg your pardon: I’ve lived alone so much that it seems a little odd
to be told to do things, even if they are as easy and pleasant as
this.”
“I am so used to taking care of people, and directing, that I do so
without thinking. I won’t if you don’t like it,” and he put out his
hand to take back the basket with a grave, apologetic air.
“But I do like it; only it amused me to be treated like a little girl
again, when I am nearly thirty, and feel seventy at least, life has
been so hard to me lately.”
Her face sobered at the last words, and David’s instantly grew so
pitiful she could not keep her eyes on it lest they should fill, so
suddenly did the memory of past troubles overcome her.
“I know,” he said in a tone that warmed her heart, “I know, but we are
going to try, and make life easier for you now, and you must feel that
this is home and we are friends.”
“I do!” and Christie flushed with grateful feeling and a little shame,
as she went in, thinking to herself: “How silly I was to say that! I
may have spoilt the simple friendliness that was so pleasant, and have
made him think me a foolish stuck-up old creature.”
Whatever he might have thought, David’s manner was unchanged when he
came in and found her busy with the table.
“It’s pleasant to see thee resting, mother, and every thing going on so
well,” he said, glancing about the room, where the old lady sat, and
nodding toward the kitchen, where Christie was toasting bread in her
neatest manner.
“Yes, Davy, it was about time I had a helper for thy sake, at least;
and this is a great improvement upon heedless Kitty, I am inclined to
think.”
Mrs. Sterling dropped her voice over that last sentence; but Christie
heard it, and was pleased. A moment or two later, David came toward her
with a glass in his hand, saying as if rather doubtful of his
reception:
“New milk is part of the cure: will you try it?”
For the first time, Christie looked straight up in the honest eyes that
seemed to demand honesty in others, and took the glass, answering
heartily:
“Yes, thank you; I drink good health to you, and better manners to me.”
The newly lighted lamp shone full in her face, and though it was
neither young nor blooming, it showed something better than youth and
bloom to one who could read the subtle language of character as David
could. He nodded as he took the glass, and went away saying quietly:
“We are plain people here, and you won’t find it hard to get on with
us, I think.”
But he liked the candid look, and thought about it, as he chopped
kindlings, whistling with a vigor which caused Christie to smile as she
strained the milk.
After tea a spider-legged table was drawn out toward the hearth, where
an open fire burned cheerily, and puss purred on the rug, with Bran
near by. David unfolded his newspapers, Mrs. Sterling pinned on her
knitting-sheath, and Christie sat a moment enjoying the comfortable
little scene. She sighed without knowing it, and Mrs. Sterling asked
quickly: “Is thee tired, my dear?” “Oh, no! only happy.”
“I am glad of that: I was afraid thee would find it dull.”
“It’s beautiful!” then Christie checked herself feeling that these
outbursts would not suit such quiet people; and, half ashamed of
showing how much she felt, she added soberly, “If you will give me
something to do I shall be quite contented.”
“Sewing is not good for thee. If thee likes to knit I’ll set up a sock
for thee to-morrow,” said the old lady well pleased at the industrious
turn of her new handmaid.
“I like to darn, and I see some to be done in this basket. May I do
it?” and Christie laid hold of the weekly job which even the best
housewives are apt to set aside for pleasanter tasks.
“As thee likes, my dear. My eyes will not let me sew much in the
evening, else I should have finished that batch to-night. Thee will
find the yarn and needles in the little bag.”
So Christie fell to work on gray socks, and neat lavender-colored hose,
while the old lady knit swiftly, and David read aloud. Christie thought
she was listening to the report of a fine lecture; but her ear only
caught the words, for her mind wandered away into a region of its own,
and lived there till her task was done. Then she laid the tidy pile in
the basket, drew her chair to a corner of the hearth, and quietly
enjoyed herself.
The cat, feeling sure of a welcome, got up into her lap, and went to
sleep in a cosy bunch; Bran laid his nose across her feet, and blinked
at her with sleepy good-will, while her eyes wandered round the room,
from its quaint furniture and the dreaming flowers in the windows, to
the faces of its occupants, and lingered there.
The plain border of a Quaker cap encircled that mild old face, with
bands of silver hair parted on a forehead marked with many lines. But
the eyes were clear and sweet; winter roses bloomed in the cheeks, and
an exquisite neatness pervaded the small figure, from the trim feet on
the stool, to the soft shawl folded about the shoulders, as only a
Quakeress can fold one. In Mrs. Sterling, piety and peace made old age
lovely, and the mere presence of this tranquil soul seemed to fill the
room with a reposeful charm none could resist.
The other face possessed no striking comeliness of shape or color; but
the brown, becoming beard made it manly, and the broad arch of a
benevolent brow added nobility to features otherwise not beautiful,—a
face plainly expressing resolution and rectitude, inspiring respect as
naturally as it certain protective kindliness of manner won confidence.
Even in repose wearing a vigilant look as if some hidden pain or
passion lay in wait to surprise and conquer the sober cheerfulness that
softened the lines of the firm-set lips, and warmed the glance of the
thoughtful eyes.
Christie fancied she possessed the key to this, and longed to know all
the story of the cross which Mr. Power said David had learned to bear
so well. Then she began to wonder if they could like and keep her, to
hope so, and to feel that here at last she was at home with friends.
But the old sadness crept over her, as she remembered how often she had
thought this before, and how soon the dream ended, the ties were
broken, and she adrift again.
“Ah well,” she said within herself, “I won’t think of the morrow, but
take the good that comes and enjoy it while I may. I must not
disappoint Rachel, since she kept her word so nobly to me. Dear soul,
when shall I see her again?”
The thought of Rachel always touched her heart; more now than ever;
and, as she leaned back in her chair with closed eyes and idle hands,
these tender memories made her unconscious face most eloquent. The eyes
peering over the spectacles telegraphed a meaning message to the other
eyes glancing over the paper now and then; and both these friends in
deed as well as name felt assured that this woman needed all the
comfort they could give her. But the busy needles never stopped their
click, and the sonorous voice read on without a pause, so Christie
never knew what mute confidences passed between mother and son, or what
helpful confessions her traitorous face had made for her.
The clock struck nine, and these primitive people prepared for rest;
for their day began at dawn, and much wholesome work made sleep a
luxury.
“Davy will tap at thy door as he goes down in the morning, and I will
soon follow to show thee about matters. Good-night, and good rest, my
child.”
So speaking, the little lady gave Christie a maternal kiss; David shook
hands; and then she went away, wondering why service was so lightened
by such little kindnesses.
As she lay in her narrow white bed, with the “pale light of stars”
filling the quiet, cell-like room, and some one playing softly on a
flute overhead, she felt as if she had left the troublous world behind
her, and shutting out want, solitude, and despair, had come into some
safe, secluded spot full of flowers and sunshine, kind hearts, and
charitable deeds.