WAKING UP.
[Illustration: KITTY.]
Every thing _did_ “go beautifully” for a time; so much so, that
Christie began to think she really had “got religion.” A delightful
peace pervaded her soul, a new interest made the dullest task
agreeable, and life grew so inexpressibly sweet that she felt as if she
could forgive all her enemies, love her friends more than ever, and do
any thing great, good, or glorious.
She had known such moods before, but they had never lasted long, and
were not so intense as this; therefore, she was sure some blessed power
had come to uphold and cheer her. She sang like a lark as she swept and
dusted; thought high and happy thoughts among the pots and kettles,
and, when she sat sewing, smiled unconsciously as if some deep
satisfaction made sunshine from within. Heart and soul seemed to wake
up and rejoice as naturally and beautifully as flowers in the spring. A
soft brightness shone in her eyes, a fuller tone sounded in her voice,
and her face grew young and blooming with the happiness that
transfigures all it touches.
“Christie ’s growing handsome,” David would say to his mother, as if
she was a flower in which he took pride.
“Thee is a good gardener, Davy,” the old lady would reply, and when he
was busy would watch him with a tender sort of anxiety, as if to
discover a like change in him.
But no alteration appeared, except more cheerfulness and less silence;
for now there was no need to hide his real self, and all the social
virtues in him came out delightfully after their long solitude.
In her present uplifted state, Christie could no more help regarding
David as a martyr and admiring him for it, than she could help mixing
sentiment with her sympathy. By the light of the late confessions, his
life and character looked very different to her now. His apparent
contentment was resignation; his cheerfulness, a manly contempt for
complaint; his reserve, the modest reticence of one who, having done a
hard duty well, desires no praise for it. Like all enthusiastic
persons, Christie had a hearty admiration for self-sacrifice and
self-control; and, while she learned to see David’s virtues, she also
exaggerated them, and could not do enough to show the daily increasing
esteem and respect she felt for him, and to atone for the injustice she
once did him.
She grubbed in the garden and green-house, and learned hard botanical
names that she might be able to talk intelligently upon subjects that
interested her comrade. Then, as autumn ended out-of-door work, she
tried to make home more comfortable and attractive than ever.
David’s room was her especial care; for now to her there was something
pathetic in the place and its poor furnishing. He had fought many a
silent battle there; won many a secret victory; and tried to cheer his
solitude with the best thoughts the minds of the bravest, wisest men
could give him.
She did not smile at the dilapidated idols now, but touched them
tenderly, and let no dust obscure their well-beloved faces. She set the
books in order daily, taking many a sip of refreshment from them by the
way, and respectfully regarded those in unknown tongues, full of
admiration for David’s learning. She covered the irruptive sofa neatly;
saw that the little vase was always clear and freshly filled; cared for
the nursery in the gable-window; and preserved an exquisite neatness
everywhere, which delighted the soul of the room’s order-loving
occupant.
She also—alas, for romance!—cooked the dishes David loved, and liked to
see him enjoy them with the appetite which once had shocked her so. She
watched over his buttons with a vigilance that would have softened the
heart of the crustiest bachelor: she even gave herself the complexion
of a lemon by wearing blue, because David liked the pretty contrast
with his mother’s drabs.
After recording that last fact, it is unnecessary to explain what was
the matter with Christie. She honestly thought she had got religion;
but it was piety’s twin-sister, who produced this wonderful revival in
her soul; and though she began in all good faith she presently
discovered that she was
“Not the first maiden
Who came but for friendship,
And took away love.”
After the birthnight confessions, David found it easier to go on with
the humdrum life he had chosen from a sense of duty; for now he felt as
if he had not only a fellow-worker, but a comrade and friend who
understood, sympathized with, and encouraged him by an interest and
good-will inexpressibly comfortable and inspiring. Nothing disturbed
the charm of the new league in those early days; for Christie was
thoroughly simple and sincere, and did her womanly work with no thought
of reward or love or admiration.
David saw this, and felt it more attractive than any gift of beauty or
fascination of manner would have been. He had no desire to be a lover,
having forbidden himself that hope; but he found it so easy and
pleasant to be a friend that he reproached himself for not trying it
before; and explained his neglect by the fact that Christie was not an
ordinary woman, since none of all the many he had known and helped, had
ever been any thing to him but objects of pity and protection.
Mrs. Sterling saw these changes with her wise, motherly eyes, but said
nothing; for she influenced others by the silent power of character.
Speaking little, and unusually gifted with the meditative habits of
age, she seemed to live in a more peaceful world than this. As George
MacDonald somewhere says, “Her soul seemed to sit apart in a sunny
little room, safe from dust and noise, serenely regarding passers-by
through the clear muslin curtains of her window.”
Yet, she was neither cold nor careless, stern nor selfish, but ready to
share all the joys and sorrows of those about her; and when advice was
asked she gave it gladly. Christie had won her heart long ago, and now
was as devoted as a daughter to her; lightening her cares so skilfully
that many of them slipped naturally on to the young shoulders, and left
the old lady much time for rest, or the lighter tasks fitted for feeble
hands. Christie often called her “Mother,” and felt herself rewarded
for the hardest, humblest job she ever did when the sweet old voice
said gratefully, “I thank thee, daughter.”
Things were in this prosperous, not to say paradisiacal, state, when
one member of the family began to make discoveries of an alarming
nature. The first was that the Sunday pilgrimages to church were
seasons of great refreshment to soul and body when David went also, and
utter failures if he did not. Next, that the restless ambitions of all
sorts were quite gone; for now Christie’s mission seemed to be sitting
in a quiet corner and making shirts in the most exquisite manner, while
thinking about—well, say botany, or any kindred subject. Thirdly, that
home was woman’s sphere after all, and the perfect roasting of beef,
brewing of tea, and concocting of delectable puddings, an end worth
living for if masculine commendation rewarded the labor.
Fourthly, and worst of all, she discovered that she was not satisfied
with half confidences, and quite pined to know all about “David’s
trouble.” The little needle-book with the faded “Letty” on it haunted
her; and when, after a pleasant evening below, she heard him pace his
room for hours, or play melancholy airs upon the flute, she was jealous
of that unknown woman who had such power to disturb his peace, and felt
a strong desire to smash the musical confidante into whose responsive
breast he poured his woe.
At this point Christie paused; and, after evading any explanation of
these phenomena in the most skilful manner for a time, suddenly faced
the fact, saying to herself with great candor and decision:
“I know what all this means: I’m beginning to like David more than is
good for me. I see this clearly, and won’t dodge any longer, but put a
stop to it at once. Of course I can if I choose, and now is the time to
do it; for I understand myself perfectly, and if I reach a certain
point it is all over with me. That point I will not reach: David’s
heart is in that Letty’s grave, and he only cares for me as a friend. I
promised to be one to him, and I’ll keep my word like an honest woman.
It may not be easy; but all the sacrifices shall not be his, and I
won’t be a fool.”
With praiseworthy resolution Christie set about the reformation without
delay; not an easy task and one that taxed all her wit and wisdom to
execute without betraying the motive for it. She decided that Mrs.
Sterling must not be left alone on Sunday, so the young people took
turns to go to church, and such dismal trips Christie had never known;
for all her Sundays were bad weather, and Mr. Power seemed to hit on
unusually uninteresting texts.
She talked while she sewed instead of indulging in dangerous thoughts,
and Mrs. Sterling was surprised and entertained by this new loquacity.
In the evening she read and studied with a diligence that amazed and
rather disgusted David; since she kept all her lively chat for his
mother, and pored over her books when he wanted her for other things.
“I’m trying to brighten up my wits,” she said, and went on trying to
stifle her affections.
But though “the absurdity,” as she called the new revelation, was
stopped externally, it continued with redoubled vigor internally. Each
night she said, “this must be conquered,” yet each morning it rose fair
and strong to make the light and beauty of her day, and conquer her
again. She did her best and bravest, but was forced at last to own that
she could not “put a stop to it,” because she had already reached the
point where “it was all over with her.”
Just at this critical moment an event occurred which completed
Christie’s defeat, and made her feel that her only safety lay in
flight.
One evening she sat studying ferns, and heroically saying over and
over, “Andiantum, Aspidium, and Asplenium, Trichomanes,” while longing
to go and talk delightfully to David, who sat musing by the fire.
“I can’t go on so much longer,” she thought despairingly. “Polypodium
aureum, a native of Florida,” is all very interesting in its place; but
it doesn’t help me to gain self-control a bit, and I shall disgrace
myself if something doesn’t happen very soon.”
Something did happen almost instantly; for as she shut the cover
sharply on the poor Polypods, a knock was heard, and before David could
answer it the door flew open and a girl ran in. Straight to him she
went, and clinging to his arm said excitedly: “Oh, do take care of me:
I’ve run away again!”
“Why, Kitty, what’s the matter now?” asked David, putting back her
hood, and looking down at her with the paternal expression Christie had
not seen for a long time, and missed very much.
“Father found me, and took me home, and wanted me to marry a dreadful
man, and I wouldn’t, so I ran away to you. He didn’t know I came here
before, and I’m safe if you’ll let me stay,” cried Kitty, still
clinging and imploring.
“Of course I will, and glad to see you back again,” answered David,
adding pitifully, as he put her in his easy-chair, took her cloak and
hood off and stood stroking her curly hair: “Poor little girl! it is
hard to have to run away so much: isn’t it?”
“Not if I come here; it’s so pleasant I’d like to stay all my life,”
and Kitty took a long breath, as if her troubles were over now. “Who’s
that?” she asked suddenly, as her eye fell on Christie, who sat
watching her with interest:
“That is our good friend Miss Devon. She came to take your place, and
we got so fond of her we could not let her go,” answered David with a
gesture of introduction, quite unconscious that his position just then
was about as safe and pleasant as that of a man between a lighted
candle and an open powder barrel.
The two young women nodded to each other, took a swift survey, and made
up their minds before David had poked the fire. Christie saw a pretty
face with rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and brown rings of hair lying on the
smooth, low forehead; a young face, but not childlike, for it was
conscious of its own prettiness, and betrayed the fact by little airs
and graces that reminded one of a coquettish kitten. Short and slender,
she looked more youthful than she was; while a gay dress, with gilt
ear-rings, locket at the throat, and a cherry ribbon in her hair made
her a bright little figure in that plain room.
Christie suddenly felt as if ten years had been added to her age, as
she eyed the new-comer, who leaned back in the great chair talking to
David, who stood on the rug, evidently finding it pleasanter to look at
the vivacious face before him than at the fire.
“Just the pretty, lively sort of girl sensible men often marry, and
then discover how silly they are,” thought Christie, taking up her work
and assuming an indifferent air.
“She’s a lady and nice looking, but I know I shan’t like her,” was
Kitty’s decision, as she turned away and devoted herself to David,
hoping he would perceive how much she had improved and admire her
accordingly.
“So you don’t want to marry this Miles because he is not handsome.
You’d better think again before you make up your mind. He is
respectable, well off, and fond of you, it seems. Why not try it,
Kitty? You need some one to take care of you sadly,” David said, when
her story had been told.
“If father plagues me much I may take the man; but I’d rather have the
other one if he wasn’t poor,” answered Kitty with a side-long glance of
the blue eyes, and a conscious smile on the red lips.
“Oh, there’s another lover, is there?”
“Lots of ’em.”
David laughed and looked at Christie as if inviting her to be amused
with the freaks and prattle of a child. But Christie sewed away without
a sign of interest.
“That won’t do, Kitty: you are too young for much of such nonsense. I
shall keep you here a while, and see if we can’t settle matters both
wisely and pleasantly,” he said, shaking his head as sagely as a
grandfather.
“I’m sure I wish you would: I love to stay here, you are always so good
to me. I’m in no hurry to be married; and you won’t make me: will you?”
Kitty rose as she spoke, and stood before him with a beseeching little
gesture, and a confiding air quite captivating to behold.
Christie was suddenly seized with a strong desire to shake the girl and
call her an “artful little hussy,” but crushed this unaccountable
impulse, and hemmed a pocket-handkerchief with reckless rapidity, while
she stole covert glances at the tableau by the fire.
David put his finger under Kitty’s round chin, and lifting her face
looked into it, trying to discover if she really cared for this suitor
who seemed so providentially provided for her. Kitty smiled and
blushed, and dimpled under that grave look so prettily that it soon
changed, and David let her go, saying indulgently:
“You shall not be troubled, for you are only a child after all. Let the
lovers go, and stay and play with me, for I’ve been rather lonely
lately.”
“That’s a reproach for me,” thought Christie, longing to cry out: “No,
no; send the girl away and let me be all in all to you.” But she only
turned up the lamp and pretended to be looking for a spool, while her
heart ached and her eyes were too dim for seeing.
“I’m too old to play, but I’ll stay and tease you as I used to, if
Miles don’t come and carry me off as he said he would,” answered Kitty,
with a toss of the head which showed she was not so childlike as David
fancied. But the next minute she was sitting on a stool at his feet
petting the cat, while she told her adventures with girlish volubility.
Christie could not bear to sit and look on any longer, so she left the
room, saying she would see if Mrs. Sterling wanted any thing, for the
old lady kept her room with a touch of rheumatism. As she shut the
door, Christie heard Kitty say softly:
“Now we’ll be comfortable as we used to be: won’t we?”
What David answered Christie did not stay to hear, but went into the
kitchen, and had her first pang of jealousy out alone, while she beat
up the buckwheats for breakfast with an energy that made them miracles
of lightness on the morrow.
When she told Mrs. Sterling of the new arrival, the placid little lady
gave a cluck of regret and said with unusual emphasis:
“I’m sorry for it.”
“Why?” asked Christie, feeling as if she could embrace the speaker for
the words.
“She is a giddy little thing, and much care to whoever befriends her.”
Mrs. Sterling would say no more, but, as Christie bade her good-night,
she held her hand, saying with a kiss:
“No one will take thy place with me, my daughter.”
For a week Christie suffered constant pin-pricks of jealousy, despising
herself all the time, and trying to be friendly with the disturber of
her peace. As if prompted by an evil spirit, Kitty unconsciously tried
and tormented her from morning to night, and no one saw or guessed it
unless Mrs. Sterling’s motherly heart divined the truth. David seemed
to enjoy the girl’s lively chat, her openly expressed affection, and
the fresh young face that always brightened when he came.
Presently, however, Christie saw a change in him, and suspected that he
had discovered that Kitty was a child no longer, but a young girl with
her head full of love and lovers. The blue eyes grew shy, the pretty
face grew eloquent with blushes now and then, as he looked at it, and
the lively tongue faltered sometimes in speaking to him. A thousand
little coquetries were played off for his benefit, and frequent appeals
for advice in her heart affairs kept tender subjects uppermost in their
conversations.
At first all this seemed to amuse David as much as if Kitty were a
small child playing at sweethearts; but soon his manner changed,
growing respectful, and a little cool when Kitty was most confiding. He
no longer laughed about Miles, stopped calling her “little girl,” and
dropped his paternal ways as he had done with Christie. By many
indescribable but significant signs he showed that he considered Kitty
a woman now and treated her as such, being all the more scrupulous in
the respect he paid her, because she was so unprotected, and so wanting
in the natural dignity and refinement which are a woman’s best
protection.
Christie admired him for this, but saw in it the beginning of a
tenderer feeling than pity, and felt each day that she was one too many
now.
Kitty was puzzled and piqued by these changes, and being a born flirt
tried all her powers on David, veiled under guileless girlishness. She
was very pretty, very charming, and at times most lovable and sweet
when all that was best in her shallow little heart was touched. But it
was evident to all that her early acquaintance with the hard and sordid
side of life had brushed the bloom from her nature, and filled her mind
with thoughts and feelings unfitted to her years.
Mrs. Sterling was very kind to her, but never treated her as she did
Christie; and though not a word was spoken between them the elder women
knew that they quite agreed in their opinion of Kitty. She evidently
was rather afraid of the old lady, who said so little and saw so much.
Christie also she shunned without appearing to do so, and when alone
with her put on airs that half amused, half irritated the other.
“David is my friend, and I don’t care for any one else,” her manner
said as plainly as words; and to him she devoted herself so entirely,
and apparently so successfully, that Christie made up her mind he had
at last begun to forget his Letty, and think of filling the void her
loss had left.
A few words which she accidentally overheard confirmed this idea, and
showed her what she must do. As she came quietly in one evening from a
stroll in the lane, and stood taking off cloak and hood, she caught a
glimpse through the half-open parlor door of David pacing to and fro
with a curiously excited expression on his face, and heard Mrs.
Sterling say with unusual warmth:
“Thee is too hard upon thyself, Davy. Forget the past and be happy as
other men are. Thee has atoned for thy fault long ago, so let me see
thee at peace before I die, my son.”
“Not yet, mother, not yet. I have no right to hope or ask for any
woman’s love till I am worthier of it,” answered David in a tone that
thrilled Christie’s heart: it was so full of love and longing.
Here Kitty came running in from the green-house with her hands full of
flowers, and passing Christie, who was fumbling among the cloaks in the
passage, she went to show David some new blossom.
He had no time to alter the expression of his face for its usual grave
serenity: Kitty saw the change at once, and spoke of it with her
accustomed want of tact.
“How handsome you look! What are you thinking about?” she said, gazing
up at him with her own eyes bright with wonder, and her cheeks glowing
with the delicate carmine of the frosty air.
“I am thinking that you look more like a rose than ever,” answered
David turning her attention from himself by a compliment, and beginning
to admire the flowers, still with that flushed and kindled look on his
own face.
Christie crept upstairs, and, sitting in the dark, decided with the
firmness of despair to go away, lest she should betray the secret that
possessed her, a dead hope now, but still too dear to be concealed.
“Mr. Power told me to come to him when I got tired of this. I’ll say I
am tired and try something else, no matter what: I can bear any thing,
but to stand quietly by and see David marry that empty-hearted girl,
who dares to show that she desires to win him. Out of sight of all
this, I can conquer my love, at least hide it; but if I stay I know I
shall betray myself in some bitter minute, and I’d rather die than do
that.”
Armed with this resolution, Christie went the next day to Mr. Power,
and simply said: “I am not needed at the Sterlings any more: can you
give me other work to do?”
Mr. Power’s keen eye searched her face for a moment, as if to discover
the real motive for her wish. But Christie had nerved herself to bear
that look, and showed no sign of her real trouble, unless the set
expression of her lips, and the unnatural steadiness of her eyes
betrayed it to that experienced reader of human hearts.
Whatever he suspected or saw, Mr. Power kept to himself, and answered
in his cordial way:
“Well, I’ve been expecting you would tire of that quiet life, and have
plenty of work ready for you. One of my good Dorcases is tired out and
must rest; so you shall take her place and visit my poor, report their
needs, and supply them as fast as we can. Does that suit you?”
“Entirely, sir. Where shall I live?” asked Christie, with an expression
of relief that said much.
“Here for the present. I want a secretary to put my papers in order,
write some of my letters, and do a thousand things to help a busy man.
My old housekeeper likes you, and will let you take a duster now and
then if you don’t find enough other work to do. When can you come?”
Christie answered with a long breath of satisfaction: “To-morrow, if
you like.”
“I do: can you be spared so soon?”
“Oh, yes! they don’t want me now at all, or I would not leave them.
Kitty can take my place: she needs protection more than I; and there is
not room for two.” She checked herself there, conscious that a tone of
bitterness had crept into her voice. Then quite steadily she added:
“Will you be kind enough to write, and ask Mrs. Sterling if she can
spare me? I shall find it hard to tell her myself, for I fear she may
think me ungrateful after all her kindness.”
“No: she is used to parting with those whom she has helped, and is
always glad to set them on their way toward better things. I will write
to-morrow, and you can come whenever you will, sure of a welcome, my
child.”
Something in the tone of those last words, and the pressure of the
strong, kind hand, touched Christie’s sore heart, and made it
impossible for her to hide the truth entirely.
She only said: “Thank you, sir. I shall be very glad to come;” but her
eyes were full, and she held his hand an instant, as if she clung to it
sure of succor and support.
Then she went home so pale and quiet; so helpful, patient, and
affectionate, that Mrs. Sterling watched her anxiously; David looked
amazed; and, even self-absorbed Kitty saw the change, and was touched
by it.
On the morrow, Mr. Power’s note came, and Christie fled upstairs while
it was read and discussed.
“If I get through this parting without disgracing myself, I don’t care
what happens to me afterward,” she said; and, in order that she might
do so, she assumed a cheerful air, and determined to depart with all
the honors of war, if she died in the attempt.
So, when Mrs. Sterling called her down, she went humming into the
parlor, smiled as she read the note silently given her, and then said
with an effort greater than any she had ever made in her most arduous
part on the stage:
“Yes, I did say to Mr. Power that I thought I’d better be moving on.
I’m a restless creature as you know; and, now that you don’t need me,
I’ve a fancy to see more of the world. If you want me back again in the
spring, I’ll come.”
“I shall want thee, my dear, but will not say a word to keep thee now,
for thee does need a change, and Mr. Power can give thee work better
suited to thy taste than any here. We shall see thee sometimes, and
spring will make thee long for the flowers, I hope,” was Mrs.
Sterling’s answer, as Christie gave back the note at the end of her
difficult speech.
“Don’t think me ungrateful. I have been very happy here, and never
shall forget how motherly kind you have been to me. You will believe
this and love me still, though I go away and leave you for a little
while?” prayed Christie, with a face full of treacherous emotion.
Mrs. Sterling laid her hand on Christie’s head, as she knelt down
impulsively before her, and with a soft solemnity that made the words
both an assurance and a blessing, she said:
“I believe and love and honor thee, my child. My heart warmed to thee
from the first: it has taken thee to itself now; and nothing can ever
come between us, unless thee wills it. Remember that, and go in peace
with an old friend’s thanks, and good wishes in return for faithful
service, which no money can repay.”
Christie laid her cheek against that wrinkled one, and, for a moment,
was held close to that peaceful old heart which felt so tenderly for
her, yet never wounded her by a word of pity. Infinitely comforting was
that little instant of time, when the venerable woman consoled the
young one with a touch, and strengthened her by the mute eloquence of
sympathy.
This made the hardest task of all easier to perform; and, when David
met her in the evening, Christie was ready to play out her part,
feeling that Mrs. Sterling would help her, if need be. But David took
it very quietly; at least, he showed no very poignant regret at her
departure, though he lamented it, and hoped it would not be a very long
absence. This wounded Christie terribly; for all of a sudden a barrier
seemed to rise between them, and the old friendliness grew chilled.
“He thinks I am ungrateful, and is offended,” she said to herself.
“Well, I can bear coldness better than kindness now, and it will make
it easier to go.”
Kitty was pleased at the prospect of reigning alone, and did not
disguise her satisfaction; so Christie’s last day was any thing but
pleasant. Mr. Power would send for her on the morrow, and she busied
herself in packing her own possessions, setting every thing in order,
and making various little arrangements for Mrs. Sterling’s comfort, as
Kitty was a heedless creature; willing enough, but very forgetful. In
the evening some neighbors came in; so that dangerous time was safely
passed, and Christie escaped to her own room with her usual quiet
good-night all round.
“We won’t have any sentimental demonstrations; no wailing, or tender
adieux. If I’m weak enough to break my heart, no one need know
it,—least of all, that little fool,” thought Christie, grimly, as she
burnt up several long-cherished relics of her love.
She was up early, and went about her usual work with the sad pleasure
with which one performs a task for the last time. Lazy little Kitty
never appeared till the bell rang; and Christie was fond of that early
hour, busy though it was, for David was always before her with blazing
fires; and, while she got breakfast, he came and went with wood and
water, milk and marketing; often stopping to talk, and always in his
happiest mood.
The first snow-fall had made the world wonderfully lovely that morning;
and Christie stood at the window admiring the bridal look of the earth,
as it lay dazzlingly white in the early sunshine. The little parlor was
fresh and clean, with no speck of dust anywhere; the fire burned on the
bright andirons; the flowers were rejoicing in their morning bath; and
the table was set out with dainty care. So homelike, so pleasant, so
very dear to her, that Christie yearned to stay, yet dared not, and had
barely time to steady face and voice, when David came in with the
little posies he always had ready for his mother and Christie at
breakfast time. Only a flower by their plates; but it meant much to
them: for, in these lives of ours, tender little acts do more to bind
hearts together than great, deeds or heroic words; since the first are
like the dear daily bread that none can live without; the latter but
occasional feasts, beautiful and memorable, but not possible to all.
This morning David laid a sprig of sweet-scented balm at his mother’s
place, two or three rosy daisies at Kitty’s, and a bunch of Christie’s
favorite violets at hers. She smiled as her eye went from the scentless
daisies, so pertly pretty, to her own posy full of perfume, and the
half sad, half sweet associations that haunt these blue-eyed flowers.
“I wanted pansies for you, but not one would bloom; so I did the next
best, since you don’t like roses,” said David, as Christie stood
looking at the violets with a thoughtful face, for something in the
peculiarly graceful arrangement of the heart-shaped leaves recalled
another nosegay to her mind.
“I like these very much, because they came to me in the beginning of
this, the happiest year of my life;” and scarcely knowing why, except
that it was very sweet to talk with David in the early sunshine, she
told about the flowers some one had given her at church. As she
finished she looked up at him; and, though his face was perfectly
grave, his eyes laughed, and with a sudden conviction of the truth,
Christie exclaimed!
“David, I do believe it was you!”
“I couldn’t help it: you seemed so touched and troubled. I longed to
speak to you, but didn’t dare, so dropped the flowers and got away as
fast as possible. Did you think it very rude?”
“I thought it the sweetest thing that ever happened to me. That was my
first step along a road that you have strewn with flowers ever since. I
can’t thank you, but I never shall forget it.” Christie spoke out
fervently, and for an instant her heart shone in her face. Then she
checked herself, and, fearing she had said too much, fell to slicing
bread with an energetic rapidity which resulted in a cut finger.
Dropping the knife, she tried to get her handkerchief, but the blood
flowed fast, and the pain of a deep gash made her a little faint. David
sprung to help her, tied up the wound, put her in the big chair, held
water to her lips, and bathed her temples with a wet napkin; silently,
but so tenderly, that it was almost too much for poor Christie.
For one happy moment her head lay on his arm, and his hand brushed back
her hair with a touch that was a caress: she heard his heart beat fast
with anxiety; felt his breath on her cheek, and wished that she might
die then and there, though a bread-knife was not a romantic weapon, nor
a cut finger as interesting as a broken heart. Kitty’s voice made her
start up, and the blissful vision of life, with David in the little
house alone, vanished like a bright bubble, leaving the hard reality to
be lived out with nothing but a woman’s pride to conceal a woman’s most
passionate pain.
“It’s nothing: I’m all right now. Don’t say any thing to worry your
mother; I’ll put on a bit of court-plaster, and no one will be the
wiser,” she said, hastily removing all traces of the accident but her
own pale face.
[Illustration: “ONE HAPPY MOMENT.”]
“Poor Christie, it’s hard that you should go away with a wound like
this on the hand that has done so much for us,” said David, as he
carefully adjusted the black strip on that forefinger, roughened by
many stitches set for him.
“I loved to do it,” was all Christie trusted herself to say.
“I know you did; and in your own words I can only answer: ‘I don’t know
how to thank you, but I never shall forget it.’” And David kissed the
wounded hand as gratefully and reverently as if its palm was not
hardened by the humblest tasks.
If he had only known—ah, if he had only known!—how easily he might
repay that debt, and heal the deeper wound in Christie’s heart. As it
was, she could only say, “You are too kind,” and begin to shovel tea
into the pot, as Kitty came in, as rosy and fresh as the daisies she
put in her hair.
“Ain’t they becoming?” she asked, turning to David for admiration.
“No, thank you,” he answered absently, looking out over her head, as he
stood upon the rug in the attitude which the best men will assume in
the bosoms of their families.
Kitty looked offended, and turned to the mirror for comfort; while
Christie went on shovelling tea, quite unconscious what she was about
till David said gravely:
“Won’t that be rather strong?”
“How stupid of me! I always forget that Kitty does not drink tea,” and
Christie rectified her mistake with all speed.
Kitty laughed, and said in her pert little way:
“Getting up early don’t seem to agree with either of you this morning:
I wonder what you’ve been doing?”
“Your work. Suppose you bring in the kettle: Christie has hurt her
hand.”
David spoke quietly; but Kitty looked as much surprised as if he had
boxed her ears, for he had never used that tone to her before. She
meekly obeyed; and David added with a smile to Christie:
“Mother is coming down, and you’ll have to get more color into your
checks if you mean to hide your accident from her.”
“That is easily done;” and Christie rubbed her pale cheeks till they
rivalled Kitty’s in their bloom.
“How well you women know how to conceal your wounds,” said David, half
to himself.
“It is an invaluable accomplishment for us sometimes: you forget that I
have been an actress,” answered Christie, with a bitter sort of smile.
“I wish I could forget what I have been!” muttered David, turning his
back to her and kicking a log that had rolled out of place.
In came Mrs. Sterling, and every one brightened up to meet her. Kitty
was silent, and wore an injured air which nobody minded; Christie was
very lively; and David did his best to help her through that last meal,
which was a hard one to three out of the four.
At noon a carriage came for Christie, and she said good-by, as she had
drilled herself to say it, cheerfully and steadily.
“It is only for a time, else I couldn’t let thee go, my dear,” said
Mrs. Sterling, with a close embrace.
“I shall see you at church, and Tuesday evenings, even if you don’t
find time to come to us, so I shall not say good-by at all;” and David
shook hands warmly, as he put her into the carriage.
“I’ll invite you to my wedding when I make up my mind,” said Kitty,
with feminine malice; for in her eyes Christie was an old maid who
doubtless envied her her “lots of lovers.”
“I hope you will be very happy. In the mean time try to save dear Mrs.
Sterling all you can, and let her make you worthy a good husband,” was
Christie’s answer to a speech she was too noble to resent by a sharp
word, or even a contemptuous look.
Then she drove away, smiling and waving her hand to the old lady at her
window; but the last thing she saw as she left the well-beloved lane,
was David going slowly up the path, with Kitty close beside him,
talking busily. If she had heard the short dialogue between them, the
sight would have been less bitter, for Kitty said:
“She’s dreadful good; but I’m glad she’s gone: ain’t you?”
“No.”
“Had you rather have her here than me?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you ask her to come back.”
“I would if I could!”
“I never did see any thing like it; every one is so queer and cross
to-day I get snubbed all round. If folks ain’t good to me, I’ll go and
marry Miles! I declare I will.”
“You’d better,” and with that David left her frowning and pouting in
the porch, and went to shovelling snow with unusual vigor.