WHICH?.
[Illustration: DAVID.]
Mr. Power received Christie so hospitably that she felt at home at
once, and took up her new duties with the energy of one anxious to
repay a favor. Her friend knew well the saving power of work, and gave
her plenty of it; but it was a sort that at once interested and
absorbed her, so that she had little time for dangerous thoughts or
vain regrets. As he once said, Mr. Power made her own troubles seem
light by showing her others so terribly real and great that she was
ashamed to repine at her own lot.
Her gift of sympathy served her well, past experience gave her a quick
eye to read the truth in others, and the earnest desire to help and
comfort made her an excellent almoner for the rich, a welcome friend to
the poor. She was in just the right mood to give herself gladly to any
sort of sacrifice, and labored with a quiet energy, painful to witness
had any one known the hidden suffering that would not let her rest.
If she had been a regular novel heroine at this crisis, she would have
grown gray in a single night, had a dangerous illness, gone mad, or at
least taken to pervading the house at unseasonable hours with her back
hair down and much wringing of the hands. Being only a commonplace
woman she did nothing so romantic, but instinctively tried to sustain
and comfort herself with the humble, wholesome duties and affections
which seldom fail to keep heads sane and hearts safe. Yet, though her
days seemed to pass so busily and cheerfully, it must be confessed that
there were lonely vigils in the night; and sometimes in the morning
Christie’s eyes were very heavy, Christie’s pillow wet with tears.
But life never is all work or sorrow; and happy hours, helpful
pleasures, are mercifully given like wayside springs to pilgrims
trudging wearily along. Mr. Power showed Christie many such, and
silently provided her with better consolation than pity or advice.
“Deeds not words,” was his motto; and he lived it out most faithfully.
“Books and work” he gave his new charge; and then followed up that
prescription with “healthful play” of a sort she liked, and had longed
for all her life. Sitting at his table Christie saw the best and
bravest men and women of our times; for Mr. Power was a magnet that
drew them from all parts of the world. She saw and heard, admired and
loved them; felt her soul kindle with the desire to follow in their
steps, share their great tasks, know their difficulties and dangers,
and in the end taste the immortal satisfactions given to those who live
and labor for their fellow-men. In such society all other aims seemed
poor and petty; for they appeared to live in a nobler world than any
she had known, and she felt as if they belonged to another race; not
men nor angels, but a delightful mixture of the two; more as she
imagined the gods and heroes of old; not perfect, but wonderfully
strong and brave and good; each gifted with a separate virtue, and each
bent on a mission that should benefit mankind.
Nor was this the only pleasure given her. One evening of each week was
set apart by Mr. Power for the reception of whomsoever chose to visit
him; for his parish was a large one, and his house a safe haunt for
refugees from all countries, all oppressions.
Christie enjoyed these evenings heartily, for there was no ceremony;
each comer brought his mission, idea, or need, and genuine hospitality
made the visit profitable or memorable to all, for entire freedom
prevailed, and there was stabling for every one’s hobby.
Christie felt that she was now receiving the best culture, acquiring
the polish that society gives, and makes truly admirable when character
adds warmth and power to its charm. The presence of her bosom-care
calmed the old unrest, softened her manners, and at times touched her
face with an expression more beautiful than beauty. She was quite
unconscious of the changes passing over her; and if any one had told
her she was fast becoming a most attractive woman, she would have been
utterly incredulous. But others saw and felt the new charm; for no deep
experience bravely borne can fail to leave its mark, often giving power
in return for patience, and lending a subtle loveliness to faces whose
bloom it has destroyed.
This fact was made apparent to Christie one evening when she went down
to the weekly gathering in one of the melancholy moods which sometimes
oppressed her. She felt dissatisfied with herself because her interest
in all things began to flag, and a restless longing for some new
excitement to break up the monotonous pain of her inner life possessed
her. Being still a little shy in company, she slipped quietly into a
recess which commanded a view of both rooms, and sat looking listlessly
about her while waiting for David, who seldom failed to come.
A curious collection of fellow-beings was before her, and at another
time she would have found much to interest and amuse her. In one corner
a newly imported German with an Orson-like head, thumb-ring, and the
fragrance of many meerschaums still hovering about him, was hammering
away upon some disputed point with a scientific Frenchman, whose
national politeness was only equalled by his national volubility. A
prominent statesman was talking with a fugitive slave; a young poet
getting inspiration from the face and voice of a handsome girl who had
earned the right to put M. D. to her name. An old philosopher was
calming the ardor of several rampant radicals, and a famous singer was
comforting the heart of an Italian exile by talking politics in his own
melodious tongue.
There were plenty of reformers: some as truculent as Martin Luther;
others as beaming and benevolent as if the pelting of the world had
only mellowed them, and no amount of denunciatory thunder could sour
the milk of human kindness creaming in their happy hearts. There were
eager women just beginning their protest against the wrongs that had
wrecked their peace; subdued women who had been worsted in the unequal
conflict and given it up; resolute women with “No surrender” written
all over their strong-minded countenances; and sweet, hopeful women,
whose faith in God and man nothing could shake or sadden.
But to Christie there was only one face worth looking at till David
came, and that was Mr. Power’s; for he was a perfect host, and pervaded
the rooms like a genial atmosphere, using the welcome of eye and hand
which needs no language to interpret it, giving to each guest the
intellectual fare he loved, and making their enjoyment his own.
“Bless the dear man! what should we all do without him?” thought
Christie, following him with grateful eyes, as he led an awkward youth
in rusty black to the statesman whom it had been the desire of his
ambitious soul to meet.
The next minute she proved that she at least could do without the “dear
man;” for David entered the room, and she forgot all about him. Here
and at church were the only places where the friends had met during
these months, except one or two short visits to the little house in the
lane when Christie devoted herself to Mrs. Sterling.
David was quite unchanged, though once or twice Christie fancied he
seemed ill at ease with her, and immediately tormented herself with the
idea that some alteration in her own manner had perplexed or offended
him. She did her best to be as frank and cordial as in the happy old
days; but it was impossible, and she soon gave it up, assuming in the
place of that former friendliness, a grave and quiet manner which would
have led a wiser man than David to believe her busied with her own
affairs and rather indifferent to every thing else.
If he had known how her heart danced in her bosom, her eyes brightened,
and all the world became endurable, the moment he appeared, he would
not have been so long in joining her, nor have doubted what welcome
awaited him.
As it was, he stopped to speak to his host; and, before he reappeared,
Christie had found the excitement she had been longing for.
“Now some bore will keep him an hour, and the evening is so short,” she
thought, with a pang of disappointment; and, turning her eyes away from
the crowd which had swallowed up her heart’s desire, they fell upon a
gentleman just entering, and remained fixed with an expression of
unutterable surprise; for there, elegant, calm, and cool as ever, stood
Mr. Fletcher.
“How came he here?” was her first question; “How will he behave to me?”
her second. As she could answer neither, she composed herself as fast
as possible, resolving to let matters take their own course, and
feeling in the mood for an encounter with a discarded lover, as she
took a womanish satisfaction in remembering that the very personable
gentleman before her had once been.
Mr. Fletcher and his companion passed on to find their host; and, with
a glance at the mirror opposite, which showed her that the surprise of
the moment had given her the color she lacked before, Christie occupied
herself with a portfolio of engravings, feeling very much as she used
to feel when waiting at a side scene for her cue.
She had not long to wait before Mr. Power came up, and presented the
stranger; for such he fancied him, never having heard a certain episode
in Christie’s life. Mr. Fletcher bowed, with no sign of recognition in
his face, and began to talk in the smooth, low voice she remembered so
well. For the moment, through sheer surprise, Christie listened and
replied as any young lady might have done to a new-made acquaintance.
But very soon she felt sure that Mr. Fletcher intended to ignore the
past; and, finding her on a higher round of the social ladder, to
accept the fact and begin again.
At first she was angry, then amused, then interested in the somewhat
dramatic turn affairs were taking, and very wisely decided to meet him
on his own ground, and see what came of it.
In the midst of an apparently absorbing discussion of one of Raphael’s
most insipid Madonnas, she was conscious that David had approached,
paused, and was scrutinizing her companion with unusual interest.
Seized with a sudden desire to see the two men together, Christie
beckoned; and when he obeyed, she introduced him, drew him into the
conversation, and then left him in the lurch by falling silent and
taking notes while they talked.
If she wished to wean her heart from David by seeing him at a
disadvantage, she could have devised no better way; for, though a very
feminine test, it answered the purpose excellently.
Mr. Fletcher was a handsome man, and just then looked his best.
Improved health gave energy and color to his formerly sallow, listless
face: the cold eyes were softer, the hard mouth suave and smiling, and
about the whole man there was that indescribable something which often
proves more attractive than worth or wisdom to keener-sighted women
than Christie. Never had he talked better; for, as if he suspected what
was in the mind of one hearer, he exerted himself to be as brilliant as
possible, and succeeded admirably.
David never appeared so ill, for he had no clew to the little comedy
being played before him; and long seclusion and natural reserve
unfitted him to shine beside a man of the world like Mr. Fletcher. His
simple English sounded harsh, after the foreign phrases that slipped so
easily over the other’s tongue. He had visited no galleries, seen few
of the world’s wonders, and could only listen when they were discussed.
More than once he was right, but failed to prove it, for Mr. Fletcher
skilfully changed the subject or quenched him with a politely
incredulous shrug.
Even in the matter of costume, poor David was worsted; for, in a
woman’s eyes, dress has wonderful significance. Christie used to think
his suit of sober gray the most becoming man could wear; but now it
looked shapeless and shabby, beside garments which bore the stamp of
Paris in the gloss and grace of broadcloth and fine linen. David wore
no gloves: Mr. Fletcher’s were immaculate. David’s tie was so plain no
one observed it: Mr. Fletcher’s, elegant and faultless enough for a
modern Beau Brummel. David’s handkerchief was of the commonest sort
(she knew that, for she hemmed it herself): Mr. Fletcher’s was the
finest cambric, and a delicate breath of perfume refreshed the
aristocratic nose to which the article belonged.
Christie despised herself as she made these comparisons, and felt how
superficial they were; but, having resolved to exalt one man at the
expense of the other for her own good, she did not relent till David
took advantage of a pause, and left them with a reproachful look that
made her wish Mr. Fletcher at the bottom of the sea.
When they were alone a subtle change in his face and manner convinced
her that he also had been taking notes, and had arrived at a favorable
decision regarding herself. Women are quick at making such discoveries;
and, even while she talked with him as a stranger, she felt assured
that, if she chose, she might make him again her lover.
Here was a temptation! She had longed for some new excitement, and fate
seemed to have put one of the most dangerous within her reach. It was
natural to find comfort in the knowledge that somebody loved her, and
to take pride in her power over one man, because another did not own
it. In spite of her better self she felt the fascination of the hour,
and yielded to it, half unconsciously assuming something of the “dash
and daring” which Mr. Fletcher had once confessed to finding so
captivating in the demure governess. He evidently thought so still, and
played his part with spirit; for, while apparently enjoying a
conversation which contained no allusion to the past, the memory of it
gave piquancy to that long tete-a-tete.
As the first guests began to go, Mr. Fletcher’s friend beckoned to him;
and he rose, saying with an accent of regret which changed to one of
entreaty, as he put his question:
“I, too, must go. May I come again, Miss Devon?”
“I am scarcely more than a guest myself; but Mr. Power is always glad
to see whoever cares to come,” replied Christie rather primly, though
her eyes were dancing with amusement at the recollection of those love
passages upon the beach.
“Next time, I shall come not as a stranger, but as a former—may I say
friend?” he added quickly, as if emboldened by the mirthful eyes that
so belied the demure lips.
“Now you forget your part,” and Christie’s primness vanished in a
laugh. “I am glad of it, for I want to ask about Mrs. Saltonstall and
the children. I’ve often thought of the little dears, and longed to see
them.”
“They are in Paris with their father.”
“Mrs. Saltonstall is well, I hope?”
“She died six months ago.”
An expression of genuine sorrow came over Mr. Fletcher’s face as he
spoke; and, remembering that the silly little woman was his sister,
Christie put out her hand with a look and gesture so full of sympathy
that words were unnecessary. Taking advantage of this propitious
moment, he said, with an expressive glance and effective tone: “I am
all alone now. You will let me come again?”
“Certainly, if it can give you pleasure,” she answered heartily,
forgetting herself in pity for his sorrow.
Mr. Fletcher pressed her hand with a grateful, “Thank you!” and wisely
went away at once, leaving compassion to plead for him better than he
could have done it for himself.
Leaning back in her chair, Christie was thinking over this interview so
intently that she started when David’s voice said close beside her:
“Shall I disturb you if I say, ‘Good-night’?”
“I thought you were not going to say it at all,” she answered rather
sharply.
“I’ve been looking for a chance; but you were so absorbed with that man
I had to wait.”
“Considering the elegance of ‘that man,’ you don’t treat him with much
respect.”
“I don’t feel much. What brought him here, I wonder. A French salon is
more in his line.”
“He came to see Mr. Power, as every one else does, of course.”
“Don’t dodge, Christie: you know he came to see you.”
“How do you like him?” she asked, with treacherous abruptness.
“Not particularly, so far. But if I knew him, I dare say I should find
many good traits in him.”
“I know you would!” said Christie, warmly, not thinking of Fletcher,
but of David’s kindly way of finding good in every one.
“He must have improved since you saw him last; for then, if I remember
rightly, you found him ‘lazy, cross, selfish, and conceited.’”
“Now, David, I never said any thing of the sort,” began Christie,
wondering what possessed him to be so satirical and short with her.
“Yes, you did, last September, sitting on the old apple-tree the
morning of your birthday.”
“What an inconvenient memory you have! Well, he was all that then; but
he is not an invalid now, and so we see his real self.”
“I also remember that you gave me the impression that he was an elderly
man.”
“Isn’t forty elderly?”
“He wasn’t forty when you taught his sister’s children.”
“No; but he looked older than he does now, being so ill. I used to
think he would be very handsome with good health; and now I see I was
right,” said Christie, with feigned enthusiasm; for it was a new thing
to tease David, and she liked it.
But she got no more of it; for, just then, the singer began to sing to
the select few who remained, and every one was silent. Leaning on the
high back of Christie’s chair, David watched the reflection of her face
in the long mirror; for she listened to the music with downcast eyes,
unconscious what eloquent expressions were passing over her
countenance. She seemed a new Christie to David, in that excited mood;
and, as he watched her, he thought:
“She loved this man once, or he loved her; and tonight it all comes
back to her. How will it end?”
So earnestly did he try to read that altered face that Christie felt
the intentness of his gaze, looked up suddenly, and met his eyes in the
glass. Something in the expression of those usually serene eyes, now
darkened and dilated with the intensity of that long scrutiny,
surprised and troubled her; and, scarcely knowing what she said, she
asked quickly:
“Who are you admiring?”
“Not myself.”
“I wonder if you’d think me vain if I asked you something that I want
to know?” she said, obeying a sudden impulse.
“Ask it, and I’ll tell you.”
“Am I much changed since you first knew me?”
“Very much.”
“For the better or the worse?”
“The better, decidedly.”
“Thank you, I hoped so; but one never knows how one seems to other
people. I was wondering what you saw in the glass.”
“A good and lovely woman, Christie.”
How sweet it sounded to hear David say that! so simply and sincerely
that it was far more than a mere compliment. She did not thank him, but
said softly as if to herself:
“So let me seem until I be”
—and then sat silent, so full of satisfaction in the thought that David
found her “good and lovely,” she could not resist stealing a glance at
the tell-tale mirror to see if she might believe him.
She forgot herself, however; for he was off guard now, and stood
looking away with brows knit, lips tightly set, and eyes fixed, yet
full of fire; his whole attitude and expression that of a man intent on
subduing some strong impulse by a yet stronger will.
It startled Christie; and she leaned forward, watching him with
breathless interest till the song ceased, and, with the old impatient
gesture, David seemed to relapse into his accustomed quietude.
“It was the wonderful music that excited him: that was all;” thought
Christie; yet, when he came round to say good-night, the strange
expression was not gone, and his manner was not his own.
“Shall I ask if I may come again,” he said, imitating Mr. Fletcher’s
graceful bow with an odd smile.
“I let him come because he has lost his sister, and is lonely,” began
Christie, but got no further, for David said, “Good-night!” abruptly,
and was gone without a word to Mr. Power.
“He’s in a hurry to get back to his Kitty,” she thought, tormenting
herself with feminine skill. “Never mind,” she added, with a defiant
sort of smile; “I’ve got my Philip, handsomer and more in love than
ever, if I’m not deceived. I wonder if he will come again?”
Mr. Fletcher did come again, and with flattering regularity, for
several weeks, evidently finding something very attractive in those
novel gatherings. Mr. Power soon saw why he came; and, as Christie
seemed to enjoy his presence, the good man said nothing to disturb her,
though he sometimes cast an anxious glance toward the recess where the
two usually sat, apparently busy with books or pictures; yet, by their
faces, showing that an under current of deeper interest than art or
literature flowed through their intercourse.
Christie had not deceived herself, and it was evident that her old
lover meant to try his fate again, if she continued to smile upon him
as she had done of late. He showed her his sunny side now, and very
pleasant she found it. The loss of his sister had touched his heart,
and made him long to fill the place her death left vacant. Better
health sweetened his temper, and woke the desire to do something worth
the doing; and the sight of the only woman he had ever really loved,
reawakened the sentiment that had not died, and made it doubly sweet.
Why he cared for Christie he could not tell, but he never had forgotten
her; and, when he met her again with that new beauty in her face, he
felt that time had only ripened the blithe girl into a deep-hearted
woman, and he loved her with a better love than before. His whole
manner showed this; for the half-careless, half-condescending air of
former times was replaced by the most courteous respect, a sincere
desire to win her favor, and at times the tender sort of devotion women
find so charming.
Christie felt all this, enjoyed it, and tried to be grateful for it in
the way he wished, thinking that hearts could be managed like children,
and when one toy is unattainable, be appeased by a bigger or a brighter
one of another sort.
“I must love some one,” she said, as she leaned over a basket of
magnificent flowers just left for her by Mr. Fletcher’s servant, a
thing which often happened now. “Philip has loved me with a fidelity
that ought to touch my heart. Why not accept him, and enjoy a new life
of luxury, novelty, and pleasure? All these things he can give me: all
these things are valued, admired, and sought for: and who would
appreciate them more than I? I could travel, cultivate myself in many
delightful ways, and do so much good. No matter if I was not very
happy: I should make Philip so, and have it in my power to comfort many
poor souls. That ought to satisfy me; for what is nobler than to live
for others?”
This idea attracted her, as it does all generous natures; she became
enamoured of self-sacrifice, and almost persuaded herself that it was
her duty to marry Mr. Fletcher, whether she loved him or not, in order
that she might dedicate her life to the service of poorer, sadder
creatures than herself.
But in spite of this amiable delusion, in spite of the desire to forget
the love she would have in the love she might have, and in spite of the
great improvement in her faithful Philip, Christie could not blind
herself to the fact that her head, rather than her heart, advised the
match; she could not conquer a suspicion that, however much Mr.
Fletcher might love his wife, he would be something of a tyrant, and
she was very sure she never would make a good slave. In her cooler
moments she remembered that men are not puppets, to be moved as a
woman’s will commands, and the uncertainty of being able to carry out
her charitable plans made her pause to consider whether she would not
be selling her liberty too cheaply, if in return she got only
dependence and bondage along with fortune and a home.
So tempted and perplexed, self-deluded and self-warned, attracted and
repelled, was poor Christie, that she began to feel as if she had got
into a labyrinth without any clew to bring her safely out. She longed
to ask advice of some one, but could not turn to Mrs. Sterling; and
what other woman friend had she except Rachel, from whom she had not
heard for months?
As she asked herself this question one day, feeling sure that Mr.
Fletcher would come in the evening, and would soon put his fortune to
the touch again, the thought of Mrs. Wilkins seemed to answer her.
“Why not?” said Christie: “she is sensible, kind, and discreet; she may
put me right, for I’m all in a tangle now with doubts and fears,
feelings and fancies. I’ll go and see her: that will do me good, even
if I don’t say a word about my ‘werryments,’ as the dear soul would
call them.”
Away she went, and fortunately found her friend alone in the
“settin’-room,” darning away at a perfect stack of socks, as she
creaked comfortably to and fro in her old rocking-chair.
“I was jest wishin’ somebody would drop in: it’s so kinder lonesome
with the children to school and Adelaide asleep. How be you, dear?”
said Mrs. Wilkins, with a hospitable hug and a beaming smile.
“I’m worried in my mind, so I came to see you,” answered Christie,
sitting down with a sigh.
“Bless your dear heart, what is to pay. Free your mind, and I’ll do my
best to lend a hand.”
The mere sound of that hearty voice comforted Christie, and gave her
courage to introduce the little fiction under which she had decided to
defraud Mrs. Wilkins of her advice. So she helped herself to a very
fragmentary blue sock and a big needle, that she might have employment
for her eyes, as they were not so obedient as her tongue, and then
began in as easy a tone as she could assume.
“Well, you see a friend of mine wants my advice on a very serious
matter, and I really don’t know what to give her. It is strictly
confidential, you know, so I won’t mention any names, but just set the
case before you and get your opinion, for I’ve great faith in your
sensible way of looking at things.”
“Thanky, dear, you’r welcome to my ’pinion ef it’s wuth any thing. Be
these folks you tell of young?” asked Mrs. Wilkins, with evident relish
for the mystery.
“No, the woman is past thirty, and the man ’most forty, I believe,”
said Christie, darning away in some trepidation at having taken the
first plunge.
“My patience! ain’t the creater old enough to know her own mind? for I
s’pose she’s the one in the quanderry?” exclaimed Mrs. Wilkins, looking
over her spectacles with dangerously keen eyes.
“The case is this,” said Christie, in guilty haste. “The ‘creature’ is
poor and nobody, the man rich and of good family, so you see it’s
rather hard for her to decide.”
“No, I don’t see nothin’ of the sort,” returned blunt Mrs. Wilkins. “Ef
she loves the man, take him: ef she don’t, give him the mittin and done
with it. Money and friends and family ain’t much to do with the matter
accordin’ to my view. It’s jest a plain question betwixt them two. Ef
it takes much settlin’ they’d better let it alone.”
“She doesn’t love him as much as she might, I fancy, but she is tired
of grubbing along alone. He is very fond of her, and very rich; and it
would be a fine thing for her in a worldly way, I’m sure.”
“Oh, she’s goin’ to marry for a livin’ is she? Wal, now I’d ruther one
of my girls should grub the wust kind all their days than do that.
Hows’ever, it may suit some folks ef they ain’t got much heart, and is
contented with fine clothes, nice vittles, and handsome furnitoor.
Selfish, cold, silly kinder women might git on, I dare say; but I
shouldn’t think any friend of your’n would be one of that sort.”
“But she might do a great deal of good, and make others happy even if
she was not so herself.”
“She might, but I doubt it, for money got that way wouldn’t prosper
wal. Mis’able folks ain’t half so charitable as happy ones; and I don’t
believe five dollars from one of ’em would go half so fur, or be half
so comfortin’ as a kind word straight out of a cheerful heart. I know
some thinks that is a dreadful smart thing to do; but _I_ don’t, and ef
any one wants to go a sacrificin’ herself for the good of others,
there’s better ways of doin’ it than startin’ with a lie in her mouth.”
Mrs. Wilkins spoke warmly; for Christie’s face made her fiction
perfectly transparent, though the good woman with true delicacy showed
no sign of intelligence on that point.
“Then you wouldn’t advise my friend to say yes?”
“Sakes alive, no! I’d say to her as I did to my younger sisters when
their courtin’ time come: ‘Jest be sure you’re right as to there bein’
love enough, then go ahead, and the Lord will bless you.’”
“Did they follow your advice?”
“They did, and both is prosperin’ in different ways. Gusty, she found
she was well on’t for love, so she married, though Samuel Buck was
poor, and they’re happy as can be a workin’ up together, same as Lisha
and me did. Addy, she calc’lated she wan’t satisfied somehow, so she
didn’t marry, though James Miller was wal off; and she’s kep stiddy to
her trade, and ain’t never repented. There’s a sight said and writ
about such things,” continued Mrs. Wilkins, rambling on to give
Christie time to think; “but I’ve an idee that women’s hearts is to be
trusted ef they ain’t been taught all wrong. Jest let ’em remember that
they take a husband for wuss as well as better (and there’s a sight of
wuss in this tryin’ world for some on us), and be ready to do their
part patient and faithful, and I ain’t a grain afraid but what they’ll
be fetched through, always pervidin’ they love the man and not his
money.”
There was a pause after that last speech, and Christie felt as if her
perplexity was clearing away very fast; for Mrs. Wilkins’s plain talk
seemed to show her things in their true light, with all the illusions
of false sentiment and false reasoning stripped away. She felt clearer
and stronger already, and as if she could make up her mind very soon
when one other point had been discussed.
“I fancy my friend is somewhat influenced by the fact that this man
loved and asked her to marry him some years ago. He has not forgotten
her, and this touches her heart more than any thing else. It seems as
if his love must be genuine to last so long, and not to mind her
poverty, want of beauty, and accomplishments; for he is a proud and
fastidious man.”
“I think wal of him for that!” said Mrs. Wilkins, approvingly; “but I
guess she’s wuth all he gives her, for there must be somethin’ pretty
gennywin’ in her to make him overlook her lacks and hold on so stiddy.
It don’t alter her side of the case one mite though; for love is love,
and ef she ain’t got it, he’d better not take gratitude instid, but
sheer off and leave her for somebody else.”
“Nobody else wants her!” broke from Christie like an involuntary cry of
pain; then she hid her face by stooping to gather up the avalanche of
hosiery which fell from her lap to the floor.
“She can’t be sure of that,” said Mrs. Wilkins cheerily, though her
spectacles were dim with sudden mist. “I know there’s a mate for her
somewheres, so she’d better wait a spell and trust in Providence. It
wouldn’t be so pleasant to see the right one come along after she’d
went and took the wrong one in a hurry: would it? Waitin’ is always
safe, and time needn’t be wasted in frettin’ or bewailin’; for the Lord
knows there’s a sight of good works sufferin’ to be done, and single
women has the best chance at ’em.”
“I’ve accomplished one good work at any rate; and, small as it is, I
feel better for it. Give this sock to your husband, and tell him his
wife sets a good example both by precept and practice to other women,
married or single. Thank you very much, both for myself and my friend,
who shall profit by your advice,” said Christie, feeling that she had
better go before she told every thing.
“I hope she will,” returned Mrs. Wilkins, as her guest went away with a
much happier face than the one she brought. “And ef I know her, which I
think I do, she’ll find that Cinthy Wilkins ain’t fur from right, ef
her experience is good for any thing,” added the matron with a sigh,
and a glance at a dingy photograph of her Lisha on the wall, a sigh
that seemed to say there had been a good deal of “wuss” in her bargain,
though she was too loyal to confess it.
Something in Christie’s face struck Mr. Fletcher at once when he
appeared that evening. He had sometimes found her cold and quiet, often
gay and capricious, usually earnest and cordial, with a wistful look
that searched his face and both won and checked him by its mute appeal,
seeming to say, “Wait a little till I have taught my heart to answer as
you wish.”
To-night her eyes shunned his, and when he caught a glimpse of them
they were full of a soft trouble; her manner was kinder than ever
before, and yet it made him anxious, for there was a resolute
expression about her lips even when she smiled, and though he ventured
upon allusions to the past hitherto tacitly avoided, she listened as if
it had no tender charm for her.
Being thoroughly in earnest now, Mr. Fletcher resolved to ask the
momentous question again without delay. David was not there, and had
not been for several weeks, another thorn in Christie’s heart, though
she showed no sign of regret, and said to herself, “It is better so.”
His absence left Fletcher master of the field, and he seized the
propitious moment.
“Will you show me the new picture? Mr. Power spoke of it, but I do not
like to trouble him.”
“With pleasure,” and Christie led the way to a little room where the
newly arrived gift was placed.
She knew what was coming, but was ready, and felt a tragic sort of
satisfaction in the thought of all she was relinquishing for love of
David.
No one was in the room, but a fine copy of Michael Angelo’s Fates hung
on the wall, looking down at them with weird significance.
“They look as if they would give a stern answer to any questioning of
ours,” Mr. Fletcher said, after a glance of affected interest.
“They would give a true one I fancy,” answered Christie, shading her
eyes as if to see the better.
“I’d rather question a younger, fairer Fate, hoping that she will give
me an answer both true and kind. May I, Christie?”
“I will be true but—I cannot be kind.” It cost her much to say that;
yet she did it steadily, though he held her hand in both his own, and
waited for her words with ardent expectation.
“Not yet perhaps,—but in time, when I have proved how sincere my love
is, how entire my repentance for the ungenerous words you have not
forgotten. I wanted you then for my own sake, now I want you for
yourself, because I love and honor you above all women. I tried to
forget you, but I could not; and all these years have carried in my
heart a very tender memory of the girl who dared to tell me that all I
could offer her was not worth her love.”
“I was mistaken,” began Christie, finding this wooing much harder to
withstand than the other.
“No, you were right: I felt it then and resented it, but I owned it
later, and regretted it more bitterly than I can tell. I’m not worthy
of you; I never shall be: but I’ve loved you for five years without
hope, and I’ll wait five more if in the end you will come to me.
Christie, I need you very much!”
If Mr. Fletcher had gone down upon his knees and poured out the most
ardent protestations that ever left a lover’s lips, it would not have
touched her as did that last little appeal, uttered with a break in the
voice that once was so proud and was so humble now.
“Forgive me!” she cried, looking up at him with real respect in her
face, and real remorse smiting her conscience. “Forgive me! I have
misled you and myself. I tried to love you: I was grateful for your
regard, touched by your fidelity, and I hoped I might repay it; but I
cannot! I cannot!”
“Why?”
Such a hard question! She owed him all the truth, yet how could she
tell it? She could not in words, but her face did, for the color rose
and burned on cheeks and forehead with painful fervor; her eyes fell,
and her lips trembled as if endeavoring to keep down the secret that
was escaping against her will. A moment of silence as Mr. Fletcher
searched for the truth and found it; then he said with such sharp pain
in his voice that Christie’s heart ached at the sound:
“I see: I am too late?”
“Yes.”
“And there is no hope?”
“None.”
“Then there is nothing more for me to say but good-by. May you be
happy.”
“I shall not be;—I have no hope;—I only try to be true to you and to
myself. Oh, believe it, and pity me as I do you!”
As the words broke from Christie, she covered up her face, bowed down
with the weight of remorse that made her long to atone for what she had
done by any self-humiliation.
Mr. Fletcher was at his best at that moment; for real love ennobles the
worst and weakest while it lasts: but he could not resist the
temptation that confession offered him. He tried to be generous, but
the genuine virtue was not in him; he did want Christie very much, and
the knowledge of a rival in her heart only made her the dearer.
“I’m not content with your pity, sweet as it is: I want your love, and
I believe that I might earn it if you would let me try. You are all
alone, and life is hard to you: come to me and let me make it happier.
I’ll be satisfied with friendship till you can give me more.”
He said this very tenderly, caressing the bent head while he spoke, and
trying to express by tone and gesture how eagerly he longed to receive
and cherish what that other man neglected.
Christie felt this to her heart’s core, and for a moment longed to end
the struggle, say, “Take me,” and accept the shadow for the substance.
But those last words of his vividly recalled the compact made with
David that happy birthday night. How could she be his friend if she was
Mr. Fletcher’s wife? She knew she could not be true to both, while her
heart reversed the sentiment she then would owe them: David’s
friendship was dearer than Philip’s love, and she would keep it at all
costs. These thoughts flashed through her mind in the drawing of a
breath, and she looked up, saying steadily in spite of wet eyes and
still burning cheeks:
“Hope nothing; wait for nothing from me. I will have no more delusions
for either of us: it is weak and wicked, for I know I shall not change.
Some time we may venture to be friends perhaps, but not now. Forgive
me, and be sure I shall suffer more than you for this mistake of mine.”
When she had denied his suit before he had been ungenerous and angry;
for his pride was hurt and his will thwarted: now his heart bled and
hope died hard; but all that was manliest in him rose to help him bear
the loss, for this love was genuine, and made him both just and kind.
His face was pale with the pain of that fruitless passion, and his
voice betrayed how hard he strove for self-control, as he said
hurriedly:
“You need not suffer: this mistake has given me the happiest hours of
my life, and I am better for having known so sweet and true a woman.
God bless you, Christie!” and with a quick embrace that startled her by
its suddenness and strength he left her, standing there alone before
the three grim Fates.