CHRISTIE’S GALA.
On the fourth of September, Christie woke up, saying to herself: “It is
my birthday, but no one knows it, so I shall get no presents. Ah, well,
I’m too old for that now, I suppose;” but she sighed as she said it,
for well she knew one never is too old to be remembered and beloved.
Just then the door opened, and Mrs. Sterling entered, carrying what
looked very like a pile of snow-flakes in her arms. Laying this upon
the bed, she kissed Christie, saying with a tone and gesture that made
the words a benediction:
“A happy birthday, and God bless thee, my daughter!”
Before Christie could do more than hug both gift and giver, a great
bouquet came flying in at the open window, aimed with such skill that
it fell upon the bed, while David’s voice called out from below: “A
happy birthday, Christie, and many of them!”
“How sweet, how kind of you, this is! I didn’t dream you knew about
to-day, and never thought of such a beautiful surprise,” cried
Christie, touched and charmed by this unexpected celebration.
“Thee mentioned it once long ago, and we remembered. They are very
humble gifts, my dear; but we could not let the day pass without some
token of the thanks we owe thee for these months of faithful service
and affectionate companionship.”
Christie had no answer to this little address, and was about to cry as
the only adequate expression of her feelings, when a hearty “Hear!
Hear!” from below made her laugh, and call out:
“You conspirators! how dare you lay plots, and then exult over me when
I can’t find words to thank you? I always did think you were a set of
angels, and now I’m quite sure of it.”
“Thee may be right about Davy, but I am only a prudent old woman, and
have taken much pleasure in privately knitting this light wrap to wear
when thee sits in the porch, for the evenings will soon grow chilly. My
son did not know what to get, and finally decided that flowers would
suit thee best; so he made a bunch of those thee loves, and would toss
it in as if he was a boy.”
“I like that way, and both my presents suit me exactly,” said Christie,
wrapping the fleecy shawl about her, and admiring the nosegay in which
her quick eye saw all her favorites, even to a plumy spray of the
little wild asters which she loved so much.
“Now, child, I will step down, and see about breakfast. Take thy time;
for this is to be a holiday, and we mean to make it a happy one if we
can.”
With that the old lady went away, and Christie soon followed, looking
very fresh and blithe as she ran down smiling behind her great bouquet.
David was in the porch, training up the morning-glories that bloomed
late and lovely in that sheltered spot. He turned as she approached,
held out his hand, and bent a little as if he was moved to add a
tenderer greeting. But he did not, only held the hand she gave him for
a moment, as he said with the paternal expression unusually visible:
“I wished you many happy birthdays; and, if you go on getting younger
every year like this, you will surely have them.”
It was the first compliment he had ever paid her, and she liked it,
though she shook her head as if disclaiming it, and answered brightly:
“I used to think many years would be burdensome, and just before I came
here I felt as if I could not bear another one. But now I like to live,
and hope I shall a long, long time.”
“I’m glad of that; and how do you mean to spend these long years of
yours?” asked David, brushing back the lock of hair that was always
falling into his eyes, as if he wanted to see more clearly the hopeful
face before him.
“In doing what your morning-glories do,—climb up as far and as fast as
I can before the frost comes,” answered Christie, looking at the pretty
symbols she had chosen.
“You have got on a good way already then,” began David, smiling at her
fancy.
“Oh no, I haven’t!” she said quickly. “I’m only about half way up. See
here: I’ll tell how it is;” and, pointing to the different parts of the
flowery wall, she added in her earnest way: “I’ve watched these grow,
and had many thoughts about them, as I sit sewing in the porch. These
variegated ones down low are my childish fancies; most of them gone to
seed you see. These lovely blue ones of all shades are my girlish
dreams and hopes and plans. Poor things! some are dead, some torn by
the wind, and only a few pale ones left quite perfect. Here you observe
they grow sombre with a tinge of purple; that means pain and gloom, and
there is where I was when I came here. Now they turn from those sad
colors to crimson, rose, and soft pink. That’s the happiness and health
I found here. You and your dear mother planted them, and you see how
strong and bright they are.”
She lifted up her hand, and gathering one of the great rosy cups
offered it to him, as if it were brimful of the thanks she could not
utter. He comprehended, took it with a quiet “Thank you,” and stood
looking at it for a moment, as if her little compliment pleased him
very much.
“And these?” he said presently, pointing to the delicate violet bells
that grew next the crimson ones.
The color deepened a shade in Christie’s cheek, but she went on with no
other sign of shyness; for with David she always spoke out frankly,
because she could not help it.
“Those mean love to me, not passion: the deep red ones half hidden
under the leaves mean that. My violet flowers are the best and purest
love we can know: the sort that makes life beautiful and lasts for
ever. The white ones that come next are tinged with that soft color
here and there, and they mean holiness. I know there will be love in
heaven; so, whether I ever find it here or not, I am sure I shall not
miss it wholly.”
Then, as if glad to leave the theme that never can be touched without
reverent emotion by a true woman, she added, looking up to where a few
spotless blossoms shone like silver in the light:
“Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I cannot
reach them: but I can look up, and see their beauty; believe in them,
and try to follow where they lead; remember that frost comes latest to
those that bloom the highest; and keep my beautiful white flowers as
long as I can.”
“The mush is ready; come to breakfast, children,” called Mrs. Sterling,
as she crossed the hall with a teapot in her hand.
Christie’s face fell, then she exclaimed laughing: “That’s always the
way; I never take a poetic flight but in comes the mush, and spoils it
all.”
“Not a bit; and that’s where women are mistaken. Souls and bodies
should go on together; and you will find that a hearty breakfast won’t
spoil the little hymn the morning-glories sung;” and David set her a
good example by eating two bowls of hasty-pudding and milk, with the
lovely flower in his button-hole.
“Now, what are we to do next?” asked Christie, when the usual morning
work was finished.
“In about ten minutes thee will see, I think,” answered Mrs. Sterling,
glancing at the clock, and smiling at the bright expectant look in the
younger woman’s eyes.
She did see; for in less than ten minutes the rumble of an omnibus was
heard, a sound of many voices, and then the whole Wilkins brood came
whooping down the lane. It was good to see Ma Wilkins jog ponderously
after in full state and festival array; her bonnet trembling with bows,
red roses all over her gown, and a parasol of uncommon brilliancy
brandished joyfully in her hand. It was better still to see her hug
Christie, when the latter emerged, flushed and breathless, from the
chaos of arms, legs, and chubby faces in which she was lost for several
tumultuous moments; and it was best of all to see the good woman place
her cherished “bunnit” in the middle of the parlor table as a choice
and lovely ornament, administer the family pocket-handkerchief all
round, and then settle down with a hearty:
“Wal, now, Mis Sterlin’, you’ve no idee how tickled we all was when Mr.
David came, and told us you was goin’ to have a galy here to-day. It
was so kind of providential, for ’Lisha was invited out to a day’s
pleasuring so I could leave jest as wal as not. The childern’s ben
hankerin’ to come the wust kind, and go plummin’ as they did last
month, though I told ’em berries was gone weeks ago. I reelly thought
I’d never get ’em here whole, they trained so in that bus. Wash would
go on the step, and kep fallin’ off; Gusty’s hat blew out a winder;
them two bad boys tumbled round loose; and dear little Victory set like
a lady, only I found she’d got both feet in the basket right atop of
the birthday cake, I made a puppose for Christie.”
“It hasn’t hurt it a bit; there was a cloth over it, and I like it all
the better for the marks of Totty’s little feet, bless ’em!” and
Christie cuddled the culprit with one hand while she revealed the
damaged delicacy with the other, wondering inwardly what evil star was
always in the ascendant when Mrs. Wilkins made cake.
“Now, my dear, you jest go and have a good frolic with them childern,
I’m a goin’ to git dinner, and you a goin’ to play; so we don’t want to
see no more of you till the bell rings,” said Mrs. Wilkins pinning up
her gown, and “shooing” her brood out of the room, which they entirely
filled.
Catching up her hat Christie obeyed, feeling as much like a child as
any of the excited six. The revels that followed no pen can justly
record, for Goths and Vandals on the rampage but feebly describes the
youthful Wilkinses when their spirits effervesced after a month’s
bottling up in close home quarters.
David locked the greenhouse door the instant he saw them; and pervaded
the premises generally like a most affable but very watchful policeman,
for the ravages those innocents committed much afflicted him. Yet he
never had the heart to say a word of reproof, when he saw their
raptures over dandelions, the relish with which they devoured fruit,
and the good it did the little souls and bodies to enjoy unlimited
liberty, green grass, and country air, even for a day.
Christie usually got them into the big meadow as soon as possible, and
there let them gambol at will; while she sat on the broken bough of an
apple-tree, and watched her flock like an old-fashioned shepherdess.
To-day she did so; and when the children were happily sailing boats,
tearing to and fro like wild colts, or discovering the rustic treasures
Nurse Nature lays ready to gladden little hearts and hands, Christie
sat idly making a garland of green brakes, and ruddy sumach leaves
ripened before the early frosts had come.
[Illustration: A FRIENDLY CHAT.]
David saw her there, and, feeling that he might come off guard for a
time, went strolling down to lean upon the wall, and chat in the
friendly fashion that had naturally grown up between these
fellow-workers. She was waiting for the new supply of ferns little
Adelaide was getting for her by the wall; and while she waited she sat
resting her cheek upon her hand, and smiling to herself, as if she saw
some pleasant picture in the green grass at her feet.
“Now I wonder what she’s thinking about,” said David’s voice close by,
and Christie straightway answered:
“Philip Fletcher.”
“And who is he?” asked David, settling his elbow in a comfortable niche
between the mossy stones, so that he could “lean and loaf” at his ease.
“The brother of the lady whose children I took care of;” and Christie
wished she had thought before she answered that first question, for in
telling her adventures at diiferent times she had omitted all mention
of this gentleman.
“Tell about him, as the children say: your experiences are always
interesting, and you look as if this man was uncommonly entertaining in
some way,” said David, indolently inclined to be amused.
“Oh, dear no, not at all entertaining! invalids seldom are, and he was
sick and lazy, conceited and very cross sometimes.” Christie’s heart
rather smote her as she said this, remembering the last look poor
Fletcher gave her.
“A nice man to be sure; but I don’t see any thing to smile about,”
persisted David, who liked reasons for things; a masculine trait often
very trying to feminine minds.
“I was thinking of a little quarrel we once had. He found out that I
had been an actress; for I basely did not mention that fact when I took
the place, and so got properly punished for my deceit. I thought he’d
tell his sister of course, so I did it myself, and retired from the
situation as much disgusted with Christie Devon as you are.”
“Perhaps I ought to be, but I don’t find that I am. Do you know I think
that old Fletcher was a sneak?” and David looked as if he would rather
like to mention his opinion to that gentleman.
“He probably thought he was doing his duty to the children: few people
would approve of an actress for a teacher you know. He had seen me
play, and remembered it all of a sudden, and told me of it: that was
the way it came about,” said Christie hastily, feeling that she must
get out of the scrape as soon as possible, or she would be driven to
tell every thing in justice to Mr. Fletcher.
“I should like to see you act.”
“You a Quaker, and express such a worldly and dreadful wish?” cried
Christie, much amused, and very grateful that his thoughts had taken a
new direction.
“I’m not, and never have been. Mother married out of the sect, and,
though she keeps many of her old ways, always left me free to believe
what I chose. I wear drab because I like it, and say ‘thee’ to her
because she likes it, and it is pleasant to have a little word all our
own. I’ve been to theatres, but I don’t care much for them. Perhaps I
should if I’d had Fletcher’s luck in seeing you play.”
“You didn’t lose much: I was not a good actress; though now and then
when I liked my part I did pretty well they said,” answered Christie,
modestly.
“Why didn’t you go back after the accident?” asked David, who had heard
that part of the story.
“I felt that it was bad for me, and so retired to private life.”
“Do you ever regret it?”
“Sometimes when the restless fit is on me: but not so often now as I
used to do; for on the whole I’d rather be a woman than act a queen.”
“Good!” said David, and then added persuasively: “But you will play for
me some time: won’t you? I’ve a curious desire to see you do it.”
“Perhaps I’ll try,” replied Christie, flattered by his interest, and
not unwilling to display her little talent.
“Who are you making that for? it’s very pretty,” asked David, who
seemed to be in an inquiring frame of mind that day.
“Any one who wants it. I only do it for the pleasure: I always liked
pretty things; but, since I have lived among flowers and natural
people, I seem to care more than ever for beauty of all kinds, and love
to make it if I can without stopping for any reason but the
satisfaction.”
“‘Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
“‘Then beauty is its own excuse for being,’”
observed David, who had a weakness for poetry, and, finding she liked
his sort, quoted to Christie almost as freely as to himself.
“Exactly, so look at that and enjoy it,” and she pointed to the child
standing knee-deep in graceful ferns, looking as if she grew there, a
living buttercup, with her buff frock off at one plump shoulder and her
bright hair shining in the sun.
Before David could express his admiration, the little picture was
spoilt; for Christie called out, “Come, Vic, bring me some more
pretties!” startling baby so that she lost her balance, and disappeared
with a muffled cry, leaving nothing to be seen but a pair of small
convulsive shoes, soles uppermost, among the brakes. David took a leap,
reversed Vic, and then let her compose her little feelings by sticking
bits of green in all the button-holes of his coat, as he sat on the
wall while she stood beside him in the safe shelter of his arm.
“You are very like an Englishman,” said Christie, after watching the
pair for a few minutes.
“How do you know?” asked David, looking surprised.
“There were several in our company, and I found them very much alike.
Blunt and honest, domestic and kind; hard to get at, but true as steel
when once won; not so brilliant and original as Americans, perhaps, but
more solid and steadfast. On the whole, I think them the manliest men
in the world,” answered Christie, in the decided way young people have
of expressing their opinions.
“You speak as if you had known and studied a great variety of men,”
said David, feeling that he need not resent the comparison she had
made.
“I have, and it has done me good. Women who stand alone in the world,
and have their own way to make, have a better chance to know men truly
than those who sit safe at home and only see one side of mankind. We
lose something; but I think we gain a great deal that is more valuable
than admiration, flattery, and the superficial service most men give to
our sex. Some one says, ‘Companionship teaches men and women to know,
judge, and treat one another justly.’ I believe it; for we who are
compelled to be fellow workers with men understand and value them more
truly than many a belle who has a dozen lovers sighing at her feet. I
see their faults and follies; but I also see so much to honor, love,
and trust, that I feel as if the world was full of brothers. Yes, as a
general rule, men have been kinder to me than women; and if I wanted a
staunch friend I’d choose a man, for they wear better than women, who
ask too much, and cannot see that friendship lasts longer if a little
respect and reserve go with the love and confidence.”
Christie had spoken soberly, with no thought of flattery or effect; for
the memory of many kindnesses bestowed on her by many men, from rough
Joe Butterfield to Mr. Power, gave warmth and emphasis to her words.
The man sitting on the wall appreciated the compliment to his sex, and
proved that he deserved his share of it by taking it exactly as she
meant it, and saying heartily:
“I like that, Christie, and wish more women thought and spoke as you
do.”
“If they had had my experience they would, and not be ashamed of it. I
am so old now I can say these things and not be misjudged; for even
some sensible people think this honest sort of fellowship impossible if
not improper. I don’t, and I never shall, so if I can ever do any thing
for you, David, forget that I am a woman and tell me as freely as if I
was a younger brother.”
“I wish you were!”
“So do I; you’d make a splendid elder brother.”
“No, a very bad one.”
There was a sudden sharpness in David’s voice that jarred on Christie’s
ear and made her look up quickly. She only caught a glimpse of his
face, and saw that it was strangely troubled, as he swung himself over
the wall with little Vic on his arm and went toward the house, saying
abruptly:
“Baby ’s sleepy: she must go in.”
Christie sat some time longer, wondering what she had said to disturb
him, and when the bell rang went in still perplexed. But David looked
as usual, and the only trace of disquiet was an occasional hasty
shaking back of the troublesome lock, and a slight knitting of the
brows; two tokens, as she had learned to know, of impatience or pain.
She was soon so absorbed in feeding the children, hungry and clamorous
as young birds for their food, that she forgot every thing else. When
dinner was done and cleared away, she devoted herself to Mrs. Wilkins
for an hour or two, while Mrs. Sterling took her nap, the infants
played riotously in the lane, and David was busy with orders.
The arrival of Mr. Power drew every one to the porch to welcome him. As
he handed Christie a book, he asked with a significant smile: “Have you
found him yet?”
She glanced at the title of the new gift, read “Heroes and
Hero-worship,” and answered merrily: “No, sir, but I’m looking hard.”
“Success to your search,” and Mr. Power turned to greet David, who
approached.
“Now, what shall we play?” asked Christie, as the children gathered
about her demanding to be amused.
George Washington suggested leap-frog, and the others added equally
impracticable requests; but Mrs. Wilkins settled the matter by saying:
“Let’s have some play-actin’, Christie. That used to tickle the
children amazin’ly, and I was never tired of hearin’ them pieces,
specially the solemn ones.”
“Yes, yes! do the funny girl with the baby, and the old woman, and the
lady that took pison and had fits!” shouted the children, charmed with
the idea.
Christie felt ready for any thing just then, and gave them Tilly
Slowboy, Miss Miggs, and Mrs. Gummage, in her best style, while the
young folks rolled on the grass in ecstasies, and Mrs. Wilkins laughed
till she cried.
“Now a touch of tragedy!” said Mr. Power, who sat under the elm, with
David leaning on the back of his chair, both applauding heartily.
“You insatiable people! do you expect me to give you low comedy and
heavy tragedy all alone? I’m equal to melodrama I think, and I’ll give
you Miss St. Clair as Juliet, if you wait a moment.”
Christie stepped into the house, and soon reappeared with a white
table-cloth draped about her, two dishevelled locks of hair on her
shoulders, and the vinegar cruet in her hand, that being the first
bottle she could find. She meant to burlesque the poison scene, and
began in the usual ranting way; but she soon forgot St. Clair in poor
Juliet, and did it as she had often longed to do it, with all the power
and passion she possessed. Very faulty was her rendering, but the
earnestness she put into it made it most effective to her uncritical
audience, who “brought down the house,” when she fell upon the grass
with her best stage drop, and lay there getting her breath after the
mouthful of vinegar she had taken in the excitement of the moment.
She was up again directly, and, inspired by this superb success, ran in
and presently reappeared as Lady Macbeth with Mrs. Wilkins’s scarlet
shawl for royal robes, and the leafy chaplet of the morning for a
crown. She took the stage with some difficulty, for the unevenness of
the turf impaired the majesty of her tragic stride, and fixing her eyes
on an invisible Thane (who cut his part shamefully, and spoke in the
gruffest of gruff voices) she gave them the dagger scene.
David as the orchestra, had been performing a drum solo on the back of
a chair with two of the corn-cobs Victoria had been building houses
with; but, when Lady Macbeth said, “Give me the daggers,” Christie
plucked the cobs suddenly from his hands, looking so fiercely scornful,
and lowering upon him so wrathfully with her corked brows that he
ejaculated an involuntary, “Bless me!” as he stepped back quite
daunted.
Being in the spirit of her part, Christie closed with the sleep-walking
scene, using the table-cloth again, while a towel composed the tragic
nightcap of her ladyship. This was an imitation, and having a fine
model and being a good mimic, she did well; for the children sat
staring with round eyes, the gentlemen watched the woful face and
gestures intently, and Mrs. Wilkins took a long breath at the end,
exclaiming: “I never did see the beat of that for gastliness! My sister
Clarissy used to walk in her sleep, but she warn’t half so kind of
dreadful.”
“If she had had the murder of a few friends on her conscience, I dare
say she would have been,” said Christie, going in to make herself tidy.
“Well, how do you like her as an actress?” asked Mr. Power of David,
who stood looking, as if he still saw and heard the haunted lady.
“Very much; but better as a woman. I’d no idea she had it in her,”
answered David, in a wonder-stricken tone.
“Plenty of tragedy and comedy in all of us,” began Mr. Power; but David
said hastily:
“Yes, but few of us have passion and imagination enough to act
Shakspeare in that way.”
“Very true: Christie herself could not give a whole character in that
style, and would not think of trying.”
“I think she could; and I’d like to see her try it,” said David, much
impressed by the dramatic ability which Christie’s usual quietude had
most effectually hidden.
He was still thinking about it, when she came out again. Mr. Power
beckoned to her; saying, as she came and stood before him, flushed and
kindled with her efforts:
“Now, you must give me a bit from the ‘Merchant of Venice.’ Portia is a
favorite character of mine, and I want to see if you can do any thing
with it.”
“No, sir, I cannot. I used to study it, but it was too sober to suit
me. I am not a judicial woman, so I gave it up,” answered Christie,
much flattered by his request, and amused at the respectful way in
which David looked at her. Then, as if it just occurred to her, she
added, “I remember one little speech that I can say to you, sir, with
great truth, and I will, since you like that play.”
Still standing before him, she bent her head a little, and with a
graceful gesture of the hands, as if offering something, she delivered
with heartfelt emphasis the first part of Portia’s pretty speech to her
fortunate suitor:
“You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,
Such as I am: though, for myself alone,
I would not be ambitious in my wish,
To wish myself much better; yet for you,
I would be trebled twenty times myself;
A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich;
That, only to stand high in your account,
I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,
Exceed account: but the full sum of me
Is sum of something; which, to term in gross,
Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d:—
Happy in this, she is not yet so old
But she may learn; happier than this,
She is not bred so dull but she can learn;
Happiest of all, is that her willing spirit
Commits itself to yours to be directed,
As from her lord, her governor, her king.”
David applauded vigorously; but Mr. Power rose silently, looking both
touched and surprised; and, drawing Christie’s hand through his arm,
led her away into the garden for one of the quiet talks that were so
much to her.
When they returned, the Wilkinses were preparing to depart; and, after
repeated leave-takings, finally got under way, were packed into the
omnibus, and rumbled off with hats, hands, and handkerchiefs waving
from every window. Mr. Power soon followed, and peace returned to the
little house in the lane.
Later in the evening, when Mrs. Sterling was engaged with a neighbor,
who had come to confide some affliction to the good lady, Christie went
into the porch, and found David sitting on the step, enjoying the
mellow moonlight and the balmy air. As he did not speak, she sat down
silently, folded her hands in her lap, and began to enjoy the beauty of
the night in her own way. Presently she became conscious that David’s
eyes had turned from the moon to her own face. He sat in the shade, she
in the light, and he was looking at her with the new expression which
amused her.
“Well, what is it? You look as if you never saw me before,” she said,
smiling.
“I feel as if I never had,” he answered, still regarding her as if she
had been a picture.
“What do I look like?”
“A peaceful, pious nun, just now.”
“Oh! that is owing to my pretty shawl. I put it on in honor of the day,
though it is a trifle warm, I confess.” And Christie stroked the soft
folds about her shoulders, and settled the corner that lay lightly on
her hair. “I do feel peaceful to-night, but not pious. I am afraid I
never shall do that,” she added soberly.
“Why not?”
“Well, it does not seem to be my nature, and I don’t know how to change
it. I want something to keep me steady, but I can’t find it. So I
whiffle about this way and that, and sometimes think I am a most
degenerate creature.”
“That is only human nature, so don’t be troubled. We are all compasses
pointing due north. We get shaken often, and the needle varies in spite
of us; but the minute we are quiet, it points right, and we have only
to follow it.”
“The keeping quiet is just what I cannot do. Your mother shows me how
lovely it is, and I try to imitate it; but this restless soul of mine
will ask questions and doubt and fear, and worry me in many ways. What
shall I do to keep it still?” asked Christie, smiling, yet earnest.
“Let it alone: you cannot force these things, and the best way is to
wait till the attraction is strong enough to keep the needle steady.
Some people get their ballast slowly, some don’t need much, and some
have to work hard for theirs.”
“Did you?” asked Christie; for David’s voice fell a little, as he
uttered the last words.
“I have not got much yet.”
“I think you have. Why, David, you are always cheerful and contented,
good and generous. If that is not true piety, what is?”
“You are very much deceived, and I am sorry for it,” said David, with
the impatient gesture of the head, and a troubled look.
“Prove it!” And Christie looked at him with such sincere respect and
regard, that his honest nature would not let him accept it, though it
gratified him much.
He made no answer for a minute. Then he said slowly, as if feeling a
modest man’s hesitation to speak of himself, yet urged to it by some
irresistible impulse:
“I will prove it if you won’t mind the unavoidable egotism; for I
cannot let you think me so much better than I am. Outwardly I seem to
you ‘cheerful, contented, generous, and good.’ In reality I am sad,
dissatisfied, bad, and selfish: see if I’m not. I often tire of this
quiet life, hate my work, and long to break away, and follow my own
wild and wilful impulses, no matter where they lead. Nothing keeps me
at such times but my mother and God’s patience.”
David began quietly; but the latter part of this confession was made
with a sudden impetuosity that startled Christie, so utterly unlike his
usual self-control was it. She could only look at him with the surprise
she felt. His face was in the shadow; but she saw that it was flushed,
his eyes excited, and in his voice she heard an undertone that made it
sternly self-accusing.
“I am not a hypocrite,” he went on rapidly, as if driven to speak in
spite of himself. “I try to be what I seem, but it is too hard
sometimes and I despair. Especially hard is it to feel that I have
learned to feign happiness so well that others are entirely deceived.
Mr. Power and mother know me as I am: other friends I have not, unless
you will let me call you one. Whether you do or not after this, I
respect you too much to let you delude yourself about my virtues, so I
tell you the truth and abide the consequences.”
He looked up at her as he paused, with a curious mixture of pride and
humility in his face, and squared his broad shoulders as if he had
thrown off a burden that had much oppressed him.
Christie offered him her hand, saying in a tone that did his heart
good: “The consequences are that I respect, admire, and trust you more
than ever, and feel proud to be your friend.”
David gave the hand a strong and grateful pressure, said, “Thank you,”
in a moved tone, and then leaned back into the shadow, as if trying to
recover from this unusual burst of confidence, won from him by the soft
magic of time, place, and companionship.
Fearing he would regret the glimpse he had given her, and anxious to
show how much she liked it, Christie talked on to give him time to
regain composure.
“I always thought in reading the lives of saints or good men of any
time, that their struggles were the most interesting and helpful things
recorded. Human imperfection only seems to make real piety more
possible, and to me more beautiful; for where others have conquered I
can conquer, having suffered as they suffer, and seen their hard-won
success. That is the sort of religion I want; something to hold by,
live in, and enjoy, if I can only get it.”
“I know you will.” He said it heartily, and seemed quite calm again; so
Christie obeyed the instinct which told her that questions would be
good for David, and that he was in the mood for answering them. “May I
ask you something,” she began a little timidly. “Any thing, Christie,”
he answered instantly. “That is a rash promise: I am a woman, and
therefore curious; what shall you do if I take advantage of the
privilege?” “Try and see.”
“I will be discreet, and only ask one thing,” she replied, charmed with
her success. “You said just now that you had learned to feign
happiness. I wish you would tell me how you do it, for it is such an
excellent imitation I shall be quite content with it till I can learn
the genuine thing.”
David fingered the troublesome forelock thoughtfully for a moment, then
said, with something of the former impetuosity coming back into his
voice and manner:
“I will tell you all about it; that’s the best way: I know I shall some
day because I can’t help it; so I may as well have done with it now,
since I have begun. It is not interesting, mind you,—only a grim little
history of one man’s fight with the world, the flesh, and the devil:
will you have it?”
“Oh, yes!” answered Christie, so eagerly that David laughed, in spite
of the bitter memories stirring at his heart.
“So like a woman, always ready to hear and forgive sinners,” he said,
then took a long breath, and added rapidly:
“I’ll put it in as few words as possible and much good may it do you.
Some years ago I was desperately miserable; never mind why: I dare say
I shall tell you all about it some day if I go on at this rate. Well,
being miserable, as I say, every thing looked black and bad to me: I
hated all men, distrusted all women, doubted the existence of God, and
was a forlorn wretch generally. Why I did not go to the devil I can’t
say: I did start once or twice; but the thought of that dear old woman
in there sitting all alone and waiting for me dragged me back, and kept
me here till the first recklessness was over. People talk about duty
being sweet; I have not found it so, but there it was: I should have
been a brute to shirk it; so I took it up, and held on desperately till
it grew bearable.”
“It has grovn sweet now, David, I am sure,” said Christie, very low.
“No, not yet,” he answered with the stern honesty that would not let
him deceive himself or others, cost what it might to be true. “There is
a certain solid satisfaction in it that I did not use to find. It is
not a mere dogged persistence now, as it once was, and that is a step
towards loving it perhaps.”
He spoke half to himself, and sat leaning his head on both hands
propped on his knees, looking down as if the weight of the old trouble
bent his shoulders again.
“What more, David?” said Christie.
“Only this. When I found I had got to live, and live manfully, I said
to myself, ‘I must have help or I cannot do it.’ To no living soul
could I tell my grief, not even to my mother, for she had her own to
bear: no human being could help me, yet I must have help or give up
shamefully. Then I did what others do when all else fails to sustain
them; I turned to God: not humbly, not devoutly or trustfully, but
doubtfully, bitterly, and rebelliously; for I said in my despairing
heart, ‘If there is a God, let Him help me, and I will believe.’ He did
help me, and I kept my word.”
“Oh, David, how?” whispered Christie after a moment’s silence, for the
last words were solemn in their earnestness.
“The help did not come at once. No miracle answered me, and I thought
my cry had not been heard. But it had, and slowly something like
submission came to me. It was not cheerful nor pious: it was only a
dumb, sad sort of patience without hope or faith. It was better than
desperation; so I accepted it, and bore the inevitable as well as I
could. Presently, courage seemed to spring up again: I was ashamed to
be beaten in the first battle, and some sort of blind instinct made me
long to break away from the past and begin again. My father was dead;
mother left all to me, and followed where I led. I sold the old place,
bought this, and, shutting out the world as much as I could, I fell to
work as if my life depended on it. That was five or six years ago: and
for a long time I delved away without interest or pleasure, merely as a
safety-valve for my energies, and a means of living; for I gave up all
my earlier hopes and plans when the trouble came.
“I did not love my work; but it was good for me, and helped cure my
sick soul. I never guessed why I felt better, but dug on with
indifference first, then felt pride in my garden, then interest in the
plants I tended, and by and by I saw what they had done for me, and
loved them like true friends.”
A broad woodbine leaf had been fluttering against David’s head, as he
leaned on the slender pillar of the porch where it grew. Now, as if
involuntarily, he laid his cheek against it with a caressing gesture,
and sat looking over the garden lying dewy and still in the moonlight,
with the grateful look of a man who has learned the healing miracles of
Nature and how near she is to God.
“Mr. Power helped you: didn’t he?” said Christie, longing to hear more.
“So much! I never can tell you what he was to me, nor how I thank him.
To him, and to my work I owe the little I have won in the way of
strength and comfort after years of effort. I see now the compensation
that comes out of trouble, the lovely possibilities that exist for all
of us, and the infinite patience of God, which is to me one of the
greatest of His divine attributes. I have only got so far, but things
grow easier as one goes on; and if I keep tugging I may yet be the
cheerful, contented man I seem. That is all, Christie, and a longer
story than I meant to tell.”
“Not long enough: some time you will tell me more perhaps, since you
have once begun. It seems quite natural now, and I am so pleased and
honored by your confidence. But I cannot help wondering what made you
do it all at once,” said Christie presently, after they had listened to
a whippoorwill, and watched the flight of a downy owl.
“I do not think I quite know myself, unless it was because I have been
on my good behavior since you came, and, being a humbug, as I tell you,
was forced to unmask in spite of myself. There are limits to human
endurance, and the proudest man longs to unpack his woes before a
sympathizing friend now and then. I have been longing to do this for
some time; but I never like to disturb mother’s peace, or take Mr.
Power from those who need him more. So to-day, when you so sweetly
offered to help me if you could, it quite went to my heart, and seemed
so friendly and comfortable, I could not resist trying it tonight, when
you began about my imaginary virtues. That is the truth, I believe:
now, what shall we do about it?”
“Just go on, and do it again whenever you feel like it. I know what
loneliness is, and how telling worries often cures them. I meant every
word I said this morning, and will prove it by doing any thing in the
world I can for you. Believe this, and let me be your friend.”
They had risen, as a stir within told them the guest was going; and as
Christie spoke she was looking up with the moonlight full upon her
face.
If there had been any hidden purpose in her mind, any false sentiment,
or trace of coquetry in her manner, it would have spoiled that hearty
little speech of hers.
But in her heart was nothing but a sincere desire to prove gratitude
and offer sympathy; in her manner the gentle frankness of a woman
speaking to a brother; and in her face the earnestness of one who felt
the value of friendship, and did not ask or give it lightly.
“I will,” was David’s emphatic answer, and then, as if to seal the
bargain, he stooped down, and gravely kissed her on the forehead.
Christie was a little startled, but neither offended nor confused; for
there was no love in that quiet kiss,—only respect, affection, and much
gratitude; an involuntary demonstration from the lonely man to the
true-hearted woman who had dared to come and comfort him.
Out trotted neighbor Miller, and that was the end of confidences in the
porch; but David played melodiously on his flute that night, and
Christie fell asleep saying happily to herself:
“Now we are all right, friends for ever, and every thing will go
beautifully.”