IN THE STRAWBERRY BED.
From that day a new life began for Christie, a happy, quiet, useful
life, utterly unlike any of the brilliant futures she had planned for
herself; yet indescribably pleasant to her now, for past experience had
taught her its worth, and made her ready to enjoy it.
Never had spring seemed so early or so fair, never had such a crop of
hopeful thoughts and happy feelings sprung up in her heart as now; and
nowhere was there a brighter face, a blither voice, or more willing
hands than Christie’s when the apple blossoms came.
This was what she needed, the protection of a home, wholesome cares and
duties; and, best of all, friends to live and labor for, loving and
beloved. Her whole soul was in her work now, and as health returned,
much of the old energy and cheerfulness came with it, a little sobered,
but more sweet and earnest than ever. No task was too hard or humble;
no day long enough to do all she longed to do; and no sacrifice would
have seemed too great for those whom she regarded with steadily
increasing love and gratitude.
Up at dawn, the dewy freshness of the hour, the morning rapture of the
birds, the daily miracle of sunrise, set her heart in tune, and gave
her Nature’s most healing balm. She kept the little house in order,
with Mrs. Sterling to direct and share the labor so pleasantly, that
mistress and maid soon felt like mother and daughter, and Christie
often said she did not care for any other wages.
The house-work of this small family was soon done, and then Christie
went to tasks that she liked better. Much out-of-door life was good for
her, and in garden and green-house there was plenty of light labor she
could do. So she grubbed contentedly in the wholesome earth, weeding
and potting, learning to prune and bud, and finding Mrs. Wilkins was
quite right in her opinion of the sanitary virtues of dirt.
Trips to town to see the good woman and carry country gifts to the
little folks; afternoon drives with Mrs. Sterling in the old-fashioned
chaise, drawn by the Roman-nosed horse, and Sunday pilgrimages to
church to be “righted up” by one of Mr. Power’s stirring sermons, were
among her new pleasures. But, on the whole, the evenings were her
happiest times: for then David read aloud while she worked; she sung to
the old piano tuned for her use; or, better still, as spring came on,
they sat in the porch, and talked as people only do talk when twilight,
veiling the outer world, seems to lift the curtains of that inner world
where minds go exploring, hearts learn to know one another, and souls
walk together in the cool of the day.
At such times Christie seemed to catch glimpses of another David than
the busy, cheerful man apparently contented with the humdrum duties of
an obscure, laborious life, and the few unexciting pleasures afforded
by books, music, and much silent thought. She sometimes felt with a
woman’s instinct that under this composed, commonplace existence
another life went on; for, now and then, in the interest of
conversation, or the involuntary yielding to a confidential impulse, a
word, a look, a gesture, betrayed an unexpected power and passion, a
secret unrest, a bitter memory that would not be ignored.
Only at rare moments did she catch these glimpses, and so brief, so
indistinct, were they that she half believed her own lively fancy
created them. She longed to know more; but “David’s trouble” made him
sacred in her eyes from any prying curiosity, and always after one of
these twilight betrayals Christie found him so like his unromantic self
next day, that she laughed and said:
“I never shall outgrow my foolish way of trying to make people other
than they are. Gods are gone, heroes hard to find, and one should be
contented with good men, even if they do wear old clothes, lead prosaic
lives, and have no accomplishments but gardening, playing the flute,
and keeping their temper.”
She felt the influences of that friendly place at once; but for a time
she wondered at the natural way in which kind things were done, the
protective care extended over her, and the confiding air with which
these people treated her. They asked no questions, demanded no
explanations, seemed unconscious of conferring favors, and took her
into their life so readily that she marvelled, even while she rejoiced,
at the good fortune which led her there.
She understood this better when she discovered, what Mr. Power had not
mentioned, that the little cottage was a sort of refuge for many women
like herself; a half-way house where they could rest and recover
themselves after the wrongs, defeats, and weariness that come to such
in the battle of life.
With a chivalry older and finer than any Spenser sung, Mr. Power
befriended these forlorn souls, and David was his faithful squire.
Whoever knocked at that low door was welcomed, warmed, and fed;
comforted, and set on their way, cheered and strengthened by the sweet
good-will that made charity no burden, and restored to the more
desperate and despairing their faith in human nature and God’s love.
There are many such green spots in this world of ours, which often
seems so bad that a second Deluge could hardly wash it clean again; and
these beneficent, unostentatious asylums are the salvation of more
troubled souls than many a great institution gilded all over with the
rich bequests of men who find themselves too heavily laden to enter in
at the narrow gate of heaven.
Happy the foot-sore, heart-weary traveller who turns from the crowded,
dusty highway down the green lane that leads to these humble inns,
where the sign of the Good Samaritan is written on the face of
whomsoever opens to the stranger, and refreshment for soul and body is
freely given in the name of Him who loved the poor.
Mr. Power came now and then, for his large parish left him but little
time to visit any but the needy. Christie enjoyed these brief visits
heartily, for her new friends soon felt that she was one of them, and
cordially took her into the large circle of workers and believers to
which they belonged.
Mr. Power’s heart was truly an orphan asylum, and every lonely creature
found a welcome there. He could rebuke sin sternly, yet comfort and
uplift the sinner with fatherly compassion; righteous wrath would flash
from his eyes at injustice, and contempt sharpen his voice as he
denounced hypocrisy: yet the eyes that lightened would dim with pity
for a woman’s wrong, a child’s small sorrow; and the voice that
thundered would whisper consolation like a mother, or give counsel with
a wisdom books cannot teach.
He was a Moses in his day and generation, born to lead his people out
of the bondage of dead superstitions, and go before them through a Red
Sea of persecution into the larger liberty and love all souls hunger
for, and many are just beginning to find as they come doubting, yet
desiring, into the goodly land such pioneers as he have planted in the
wilderness.
He was like a tonic to weak natures and wavering wills; and Christie
felt a general revival going on within herself as her knowledge, honor,
and affection for him grew. His strength seemed to uphold her; his
integrity to rebuke all unworthiness in her own life; and the magic of
his generous, genial spirit to make the hard places smooth, the bitter
things sweet, and the world seem a happier, honester place than she had
ever thought it since her father died.
Mr. Power had been interested in her from the first; had watched her
through other eyes, and tried her by various unsuspected tests. She
stood them well; showed her faults as frankly as her virtues, and tried
to deserve their esteem by copying the excellencies she admired in
them.
“She is made of the right stuff, and we must keep her among us; for she
must not be lost or wasted by being left to drift about the world with
no ties to make her safe and happy. She is doing so well here, let her
stay till the restless spirit begins to stir again; then she shall come
to me and learn contentment by seeing greater troubles than her own.”
Mr. Power said this one day as he rose to go, after sitting an hour
with Mrs. Sterling, and hearing from her a good report of his new
protegee. The young people were out at work, and had not been called in
to see him, for the interview had been a confidential one. But as he
stood at the gate he saw Christie in the strawberry bed, and went
toward her, glad to see how well and happy she looked.
Her hat was hanging on her shoulders, and the sun giving her cheeks a
healthy color; she was humming to herself like a bee as her fingers
flew, and once she paused, shaded her eyes with her hand, and took a
long look at a figure down in the meadow; then she worked on silent and
smiling,—a pleasant creature to see, though her hair was ruffled by the
wind; her gingham gown pinned up; and her fingers deeply stained with
the blood of many berries.
“I wonder if that means anything?” thought Mr. Power, with a keen
glance from the distant man to the busy woman close at hand. “It might
be a helpful, happy thing for both, if poor David only could forget.”
He had time for no more castle-building, for a startled robin flew away
with a shrill chirp, and Christie looked up.
“Oh, I’m so glad!” she said, rising quickly. “I was picking a special
box for you, and now you can have a feast beside, just as you like it,
fresh from the vines. Sit here, please, and I’ll hull faster than you
can eat.”
“This is luxury!” and Mr. Power sat down on the three-legged stool
offered him, with a rhubarb leaf on his knee which Christie kept
supplying with delicious mouthfuls.
[Illustration: MR. POWER AND CHRISTIE IN THE STRAWBERRY BED.]
“Well, and how goes it? Are we still happy and contented here?” he
asked.
“I feel as if I had been born again; as if this was a new heaven and a
new earth, and every thing was as it should be,” answered Christie,
with a look of perfect satisfaction in her face.
“That’s a pleasant hearing. Mrs. Sterling has been praising you, but I
wanted to be sure you were as satisfied as she. And how does David
wear? well, I hope.”
“Oh, yes, he is very good to me, and is teaching me to be a gardener,
so that I needn’t kill myself with sewing any more. Much of this is
fine work for women, and so healthy. Don’t I look a different creature
from the ghost that came here three or four mouths ago?” and she turned
her face for inspection like a child.
“Yes, David is a good gardener. I often send my sort of plants here,
and he always makes them grow and blossom sooner or later,” answered
Mr. Power, regarding her like a beneficent genie on a three-legged
stool.
“You are the fresh air, and Mrs. Sterling is the quiet sunshine that
does the work, I fancy. David only digs about the roots.”
“Thank you for my share of the compliment; but why say ‘only digs’?
That is a most important part of the work: I’m afraid you don’t
appreciate David.”
“Oh, yes, I do; but he rather aggravates me sometimes,” said Christie,
laughing, as she put a particularly big berry in the green plate to
atone for her frankness.
“How?” asked Mr. Power, interested in these little revelations.
“Well, he won’t be ambitious. I try to stir him up, for he has talents;
I’ve found that out: but he won’t seem to care for any thing but
watching over his mother, reading his old books, and making flowers
bloom double when they ought to be single.”
“There are worse ambitions than those, Christie. I know many a man who
would be far better employed in cherishing a sweet old woman, studying
Plato, and doubling the beauty of a flower, than in selling principles
for money, building up a cheap reputation that dies with him, or
chasing pleasures that turn to ashes in his mouth.”
“Yes, sir; but isn’t it natural for a young man to have some personal
aim or aspiration to live for? If David was a weak or dull man I could
understand it; but I seem to feel a power, a possibility for something
higher and better than any thing I see, and this frets me. He is so
good, I want him to be great also in some way.”
“A wise man says, ‘The essence of greatness is the perception that
virtue is enough.’ I think David one of the most ambitious men I ever
knew, because at thirty he has discovered this truth, and taken it to
heart. Many men can be what the world calls great: very few men are
what God calls good. This is the harder task to choose, yet the only
success that satisfies, the only honor that outlives death. These
faithful lives, whether seen of men or hidden in corners, are the
salvation of the world, and few of us fail to acknowledge it in the
hours when we are brought close to the heart of things, and see a
little as God sees.”
Christie did not speak for a moment: Mr. Power’s voice had been so
grave, and his words so earnest that she could not answer lightly, but
sat turning over the new thoughts in her mind. Presently she said, in a
penitent but not quite satisfied tone:
“Of course you are right, sir. I’ll try not to care for the outward and
visible signs of these hidden virtues; but I’m afraid I still shall
have a hankering for the worldly honors that are so valued by most
people.”
“‘Success and glory are the children of hard work and God’s favor,’
according to Æschylus, and you will find he was right. David got a
heavy blow some years ago as I told you, I think; and he took it hard,
but it did not spoil him: it made a man of him; and, if I am not much
mistaken, he will yet do something to be proud of, though the world may
never hear of it.”
“I hope so!” and Christie’s face brightened at the thought.
“Nevertheless you look as if you doubted it, O you of little faith.
Every one has two sides to his nature: David has shown you the least
interesting one, and you judge accordingly. I think he will show you
the other side some day,—for you are one of the women who win
confidence without trying,—and then you will know the real David. Don’t
expect too much, or quarrel with the imperfections that make him human;
but take him for what he is worth, and help him if you can to make his
life a brave and good one.”
“I will, sir,” answered Christie so meekly that Mr. Power laughed; for
this confessional in the strawberry bed amused him very much.
“You are a hero-worshipper, my dear; and if people don’t come up to the
mark you are so disappointed that you fail to see the fine reality
which remains when the pretty romance ends. Saints walk about the world
today as much as ever, but instead of haircloth and halos they now
wear”—
“Broadcloth and wide-brimmed hats,” added Christie, looking up as if
she had already found a better St. Thomas than any the church ever
canonized.
He thanked her with a smile, and went on with a glance toward the
meadow.
“And knights go crusading as gallantly as ever against the giants and
the dragons, though you don’t discover it, because, instead of banner,
lance, and shield they carry”—
“Bushel-baskets, spades, and sweet-flag for their mothers,” put in
Christie again, as David came up the path with the loam he had been
digging.
Both began to laugh, and he joined in the merriment without knowing
why, as he put down his load, took off his hat, and shook hands with
his honored guest.
“What’s the joke?” he asked, refreshing himself with the handful of
berries Christie offered him.
“Don’t tell,” she whispered, looking dismayed at the idea of letting
him know what she had said of him.
But Mr. Power answered tranquilly:
“We were talking about coins, and Christie was expressing her opinion
of one I showed her. The face and date she understands; but the motto
puzzles her, and she has not seen the reverse side yet, so does not
know its value. She will some day; and then she will agree with me, I
think, that it is sterling gold.”
The emphasis on the last words enlightened David: his sunburnt cheek
reddened, but he only shook his head, saying: “She will find a brass
farthing I’m afraid, sir,” and began to crumble a handful of loam about
the roots of a carnation that seemed to have sprung up by chance at the
foot of the apple-tree.
“How did that get there?” asked Christie, with sudden interest in the
flower.
“It dropped when I was setting out the others, took root, and looked so
pretty and comfortable that I left it. These waifs sometimes do better
than the most carefully tended ones: I only dig round them a bit and
leave them to sun and air.”
Mr. Power looked at Christie with so much meaning in his face that it
was her turn to color now. But with feminine perversity she would not
own herself mistaken, and answered with eyes as full of meaning as his
own:
“I like the single ones best: double-carnations are so untidy, all
bursting out of the calyx as if the petals had quarrelled and could not
live together.”
“The single ones are seldom perfect, and look poor and incomplete with
little scent or beauty,” said unconscious David propping up the
thin-leaved flower, that looked like a pale solitary maiden, beside the
great crimson and white carnations near by, filling the air with spicy
odor.
“I suspect you will change your mind by and by, Christie, as your taste
improves, and you will learn to think the double ones the handsomest,”
added Mr. Power, wondering in his benevolent heart if he would ever be
the gardener to mix the colors of the two human plants before him.
“I must go,” and David shouldered his basket as if he felt he might be
in the way.
“So must I, or they will be waiting for me at the hospital. Give me a
handful of flowers, David: they often do the poor souls more good than
my prayers or preaching.”
Then they went away, and left Christie sitting in the strawberry bed,
thinking that David looked less than ever like a hero with his blue
shirt, rough straw hat, and big boots; also wondering if he would ever
show her his best side, and if she would like it when she saw it.