MIDSUMMER.
“Now it is all over. I shall never have another chance like that, and
must make up my mind to be a lonely and laborious spinster all my life.
Youth is going fast, and I have little in myself to attract or win,
though David did call me ‘good and lovely.’ Ah, well, I’ll try to
deserve his praise, and not let disappointment sour or sadden me.
Better to hope and wait all my life than marry without love.”
Christie often said this to herself during the hard days that followed
Mr. Fletcher’s disappearance; a disappearance, by the way, which caused
Mr. Power much satisfaction, though he only betrayed it by added
kindness to Christie, and in his manner an increased respect very
comforting to her.
But she missed her lover, for nothing now broke up the monotony of a
useful life. She had enjoyed that little episode; for it had lent
romance to every thing while it lasted, even the charity basket with
which she went her rounds; for Mr. Fletcher often met her by accident
apparently, and carried it as if to prove the sincerity of his
devotion. No bouquets came now; no graceful little notes with books or
invitations to some coveted pleasure; no dangerously delightful
evenings in the recess, where, for a time, she felt and used the power
which to a woman is so full of subtle satisfaction; no bitter-sweet
hopes; no exciting dreams of what might be with the utterance of a
word; no soft uncertainty to give a charm to every hour that passed.
Nothing but daily duties, a little leisure that hung heavy on her hands
with no hope to stimulate, no lover to lighten it, and a sore, sad
heart that would clamor for its right; and even when pride silenced it
ached on with the dull pain which only time and patience have the power
to heal.
But as those weeks went slowly by, she began to discover some of the
miracles true love can work. She thought she had laid it in its grave;
but an angel rolled the stone away, and the lost passion rose stronger,
purer, and more beautiful than when she buried it with bitter tears. A
spirit now, fed by no hope, warmed by no tenderness, clothed in no fond
delusion; the vital soul of love which outlives the fairest, noblest
form humanity can give it, and sits among the ruins singing the
immortal hymn of consolation the Great Musician taught.
Christie felt this strange comfort resting like a baby in her lonely
bosom, cherished and blessed it; wondering while she rejoiced, and soon
perceiving with the swift instinct of a woman, that this was a lesson,
hard to learn, but infinitely precious, helpful, and sustaining when
once gained. She was not happy, only patient; not hopeful, but
trusting; and when life looked dark and barren without, she went away
into that inner world of deep feeling, high thought, and earnest
aspiration; which is a never-failing refuge to those whose experience
has built within them
“The nunnery of a chaste heart and quiet mind.”
Some women live fast; and Christie fought her battle, won her victory,
and found peace declared during that winter: for her loyalty to love
brought its own reward in time, giving her the tranquil steadfastness
which comes to those who submit and ask nothing but fortitude.
She had seen little of David, except at church, and began to regard him
almost as one might a statue on a tomb, the marble effigy of the
beloved dead below; for the sweet old friendship was only a pale shadow
now. He always found her out, gave her the posy she best liked, said
cheerfully, “How goes it, Christie?” and she always answered,
“Good-morning, David. I am well and busy, thank you.” Then they sat
together listening to Mr. Power, sung from the same book, walked a
little way together, and parted for another week with a hand-shake for
good-by.
Christie often wondered what prayers David prayed when he sat so still
with his face hidden by his hand, and looked up with such a clear and
steady look when he had done. She tried to do the same; but her
thoughts would wander to the motionless gray figure beside her, and she
felt as if peace and strength unconsciously flowed from it to sustain
and comfort her. Some of her happiest moments were those she spent
sitting there, pale and silent, with absent eyes, and lips that
trembled now and then, hidden by the flowers held before them, kissed
covertly, and kept like relics long after they were dead.
One bitter drop always marred the pleasure of that hour; for when she
had asked for Mrs. Sterling, and sent her love, she forced herself to
say kindly:
“And Kitty, is she doing well?”
“Capitally; come and see how she has improved; we are quite proud of
her.”
“I will if I can find time. It’s a hard winter and we have so much to
do,” she would answer smiling, and then go home to struggle back into
the patient mood she tried to make habitual.
But she seldom made time to go and see Kitty’s improvement; and, when
she did run out for an hour she failed to discover any thing, except
that the girl was prettier and more coquettish than ever, and assumed
airs of superiority that tried Christie very much.
“I am ready for any thing,” she always said with a resolute air after
one of these visits; but, when the time seemed to have come she was not
so ready as she fancied.
Passing out of a store one day, she saw Kitty all in her best, buying
white gloves with a most important air. “That looks suspicious,” she
thought, and could not resist speaking.
“All well at home?” she asked.
“Grandma and I have been alone for nearly a week; David went off on
business; but he’s back now and—oh, my goodness! I forgot: I’m not to
tell a soul yet;” and Kitty pursed up her lips, looking quite oppressed
with some great secret.
“Bless me, how mysterious! Well, I won’t ask any dangerous questions,
only tell me if the dear old lady is well,” said Christie, desperately
curious, but too proud to show it.
“She’s well, but dreadfully upset by what’s happened; well she may be.”
And Kitty shook her head with a look of mingled mystery and malicious
merriment.
“Mr. Sterling is all right I hope?” Christie never called him David to
Kitty; so that impertinent little person took especial pains to speak
familiarly, sometimes even fondly of him to Christie.
“Dear fellow! he’s so happy he don’t know what to do with himself. I
just wish you could see him go round smiling, and singing, and looking
as if he’d like to dance.”
“That looks as if he was going to get a chance to do it,” said
Christie, with a glance at the gloves, as Kitty turned from the
counter.
“So he is!” laughed Kitty, patting the little parcel with a joyful
face.
“I do believe you are going to be married:” exclaimed Christie, half
distracted with curiosity.
“I am, but not to Miles. Now don’t you say another word, for I’m dying
to tell, and I promised I wouldn’t. David wants to do it himself.
By-by.” And Kitty hurried away, leaving Christie as pale as if she had
seen a ghost at noonday.
She had; for the thought of David’s marrying Kitty had haunted her all
those months, and now she was quite sure the blow had come.
“If she was only a nobler woman I could bear it better; but I am sure
he will regret it when the first illusion is past. I fancy she reminds
him of his lost Letty, and so he thinks he loves her. I pray he may be
happy, and I hope it will be over soon,” thought Christie, with a
groan, as she trudged away to carry comfort to those whose woes could
be relieved by tea and sugar, flannel petticoats, and orders for a ton
of coal.
It was over soon, but not as Christie had expected.
That evening Mr. Power was called away, and she sat alone, bravely
trying to forget suspense and grief in copying the record of her last
month’s labor. But she made sad work of it; for her mind was full of
David and his wife, so happy in the little home which had grown doubly
dear to her since she left it. No wonder then that she put down “two
dozen children” to Mrs. Flanagan, and “four knit hoods” with the
measles; or that a great blot fell upon “twenty yards red flannel,” as
the pen dropped from the hands she clasped together; saying with all
the fervor of true self-abnegation: “I hope he will be happy; oh, I
hope he will be happy!”
If ever woman deserved reward for patient endeavor, hard-won
submission, and unselfish love, Christie did then. And she received it
in full measure; for the dear Lord requites some faithful hearts,
blesses some lives that seem set apart for silent pain and solitary
labor.
Snow was falling fast, and a bitter wind moaned without; the house was
very still, and nothing stirred in the room but the flames dancing on
the hearth, and the thin hand moving to and fro among the records of a
useful life.
Suddenly the bell rang loudly and repeatedly, as if the new-comer was
impatient of delay. Christie paused to listen. It was not Mr. Power’s
ring, not his voice in the hall below, not his step that came leaping
up the stairs, nor his hand that threw wide the door. She knew them
all, and her heart stood still an instant; then she gathered up her
strength, said low to herself, “Now it is coming,” and was ready for
the truth, with a colorless face; eyes unnaturally bright and fixed;
and one hand on her breast, as if to hold in check the rebellious heart
that would throb so fast.
It was David who came in with such impetuosity. Snow-flakes shone in
his hair; the glow of the keen wind was on his cheek, a smile on his
lips, and in his eyes an expression she had never seen before.
Happiness, touched with the shadow of some past pain; doubt and desire;
gratitude and love,—all seemed to meet and mingle in it; while, about
the whole man, was the free and ardent air of one relieved from some
heavy burden, released from some long captivity.
“O David, what is it?” cried Christie, as he stood looking at her with
this strange look.
“News, Christie! such happy news I can’t find words to tell them,” he
answered, coming nearer, but too absorbed in his own emotion to heed
hers.
She drew a long breath and pressed her hand a little heavier on her
breast, as she said, with the ghost of a smile, more pathetic than the
saddest tears:
“I guess it, David.”
“How?” he demanded, as if defrauded of a joy he had set his heart upon.
“I met Kitty,—she told me nothing,—but her face betrayed what I have
long suspected.”
David laughed, such a glad yet scornful laugh, and, snatching a little
miniature from his pocket, offered it, saying, with the new impetuosity
that changed him so:
“That is the daughter I have found for my mother. You know her,—you
love her; and you will not be ashamed to welcome her, I think.”
Christie took it; saw a faded, time-worn likeness of a young girl’s
happy face; a face strangely familiar, yet, for a moment, she groped to
find the name belonging to it. Then memory helped her; and she said,
half incredulously, half joyfully:
“Is it my Rachel?”
“It is my Letty!” cried David, with an accent of such mingled love and
sorrow, remorse and joy, that Christie seemed to hear in it the
death-knell of her faith in him. The picture fell from the hands she
put up, as if to ward off some heavy blow, and her voice was sharp with
reproachful anguish, as she cried:
“O David, David, any thing but that!”
An instant he seemed bewildered, then the meaning of the grief in her
face flashed on him, and his own grew white with indignant repudiation
of the thought that daunted her; but he only said with the stern
brevity of truth:
“Letty is my sister.”
“Forgive me,—how could I know? Oh, thank God! thank God!” and, dropping
down upon a chair, Christie broke into a passion of the happiest tears
she ever shed.
David stood beside her silent, till the first irrepressible paroxysm
was over; then, while she sat weeping softly, quite bowed down by
emotion, he said, sadly now, not sternly:
“You could not know, because we hid the truth so carefully. I have no
right to resent that belief of yours, for I did wrong my poor Letty,
almost as much as that lover of hers, who, being dead, I do not curse.
Let me tell you every thing, Christie, before I ask your respect and
confidence again. I never deserved them, but I tried to; for they were
very precious to me.”
He paused a moment, then went on rapidly, as if anxious to accomplish a
hard task; and Christie forgot to weep while listening breathlessly.
“Letty was the pride of my heart; and I loved her very dearly, for she
was all I had. Such a pretty child; such a gay, sweet girl; how could I
help it, when she was so fond of me? We were poor then,—poorer than
now,—and she grew restless; tired of hard work; longed for a little
pleasure, and could not bear to waste her youth and beauty in that dull
town. I did not blame my little girl; but I could not help her, for I
was tugging away to fill father’s place, he being broken down and
helpless. She wanted to go away and support herself. You know the
feeling; and I need not tell you how the proud, high-hearted creature
hated dependence, even on a brother who would have worked his soul out
for her. She would go, and we had faith in her. For a time she did
bravely; but life was too hard for her; pleasure too alluring, and,
when temptation came in the guise of love, she could not resist. One
dreadful day, news came that she was gone, never to come back, my
innocent little Letty, any more.”
His voice failed there, and he walked fast through the room, as if the
memory of that bitter day was still unbearable. Christie could not
speak for very pity; and he soon continued, pacing restlessly before
her, as he had often done when she sat by, wondering what unquiet
spirit drove him to and fro:
“That was the beginning of my trouble; but not the worst of it: God
forgive me, not the worst! Father was very feeble, and the shock killed
him; mother’s heart was nearly broken, and all the happiness was taken
out of life for me. But I could bear it, heavy as the blow was, for I
had no part in that sin and sorrow. A year later, there came a letter
from Letty,—a penitent, imploring, little letter, asking to be forgiven
and taken home, for her lover was dead, and she alone in a foreign
land. How would you answer such a letter, Christie?”
“As you did; saying: ‘Come home and let us comfort you.’”
“I said: ‘You have killed your father; broken your mother’s heart;
ruined your brother’s hopes, and disgraced your family. You no longer
have a home with us; and we never want to see your face again.’”
“O David, that was cruel!”
“I said you did not know me; now you see how deceived you have been. A
stern, resentful devil possessed me then, and I obeyed it. I was very
proud; full of ambitious plans and jealous love for the few I took into
my heart. Letty had brought a stain upon our honest name that time
could never wash away; had quenched my hopes in despair and shame; had
made home desolate, and destroyed my faith in every thing; for whom
could I trust, when she, the nearest and dearest creature in the world,
deceived and deserted me. I could not forgive; wrath burned hot within
me, and the desire for retribution would not be appeased till those
cruel words were said. The retribution and remorse came swift and sure;
but they came most heavily to me.”
Still standing where he had paused abruptly as he asked his question,
David wrung his strong hands together with a gesture of passionate
regret, while his face grew sharp with the remembered suffering of the
years he had given to the atonement of that wrong.
Christie put her own hand on those clenched ones, and whispered softly:
“Don’t tell me any more now: I can wait.”
“I must, and you must listen! I’ve longed to tell you, but I was
afraid; now, you shall know every thing, and then decide if you can
forgive me for Letty’s sake,” he said, so resolutely that she listened
with a face full of mute compassion.
“That little letter came to me; I never told my mother, but answered
it, and kept silent till news arrived that the ship in which Letty had
taken passage was lost. Remorse had been tugging at my heart; and, when
I knew that she was dead, I forgave her with a vain forgiveness, and
mourned for my darling, as if she had never left me. I told my mother
then, and she did not utter one reproach; but age seemed to fall upon
her all at once, and the pathetic quietude you see.
“Then, but for her, I should have been desperate; for day and night
Letty’s face haunted me; Letty’s voice cried: ‘Take me home!’ and every
word of that imploring letter burned before my eyes as if written in
fire. Do you wonder now that I hid myself; that I had no heart to try
for any honorable place in the world, and only struggled to forget,
only hoped to expiate my sin?”
With his head bowed down upon his breast, David stood silent, asking
himself if he had even now done enough to win the reward he coveted.
Christie’s voice seemed to answer him; for she said, with heartfelt
gratitude and respect:
“Surely you have atoned for that harshness to one woman by years of
devotion to many. Was it this that made you ’a brother of girls,’ as
Mr. Power once called you? And, when I asked what he meant, he said the
Arabs call a man that who has ‘a clean heart to love all women as his
sisters, and strength and courage to fight for their protection!’”
She hoped to lighten his trouble a little, and spoke with a smile that
was like cordial to poor David.
“Yes,” he said, lifting his head again. “I tried to be that, and, for
Letty’s sake, had pity on the most forlorn, patience with the most
abandoned; always remembering that she might have been what they were,
if death had not been more merciful than I.”
“But she was not dead: she was alive and working as bravely as you. Ah,
how little I thought, when I loved Rachel, and she loved me, that we
should ever meet so happily as we soon shall. Tell me how you found
her? Does she know I am the woman she once saved? Tell me all about
her; and tell it fast,” prayed Christie, getting excited, as she more
fully grasped the happy fact that Rachel and Letty were one.
David came nearer, and his face kindled as he spoke. “The ship sailed
without her; she came later; and, finding that her name was among the
lost, she did not deny it, for she was dead to us, and decided to
remain so till she had earned the right to be forgiven. You know how
she lived and worked, stood firm with no one to befriend her till you
came, and, by years of patient well-doing, washed away her single sin.
If any one dares think I am ashamed to own her now, let him know what
cause I have to be proud of her; let him come and see how tenderly I
love her; how devoutly I thank God for permitting me to find and bring
my little Letty home.”
Only the snow-flakes drifting against the window-pane, and the wailing
of the wind, was heard for a moment; then David added, with brightening
eyes and a glad voice:
“I went into a hospital while away, to look after one of my poor girls
who had been doing well till illness brought her there. As I was
passing out I saw a sleeping face, and stopped involuntarily: it was so
like Letty’s. I never doubted she was dead; the name over the bed was
not hers; the face was sadly altered from the happy, rosy one I knew,
but it held me fast; and as I paused the eyes opened,—Letty’s own soft
eyes,—they saw me, and, as if I was the figure of a dream, she smiled,
put up her arms and said, just as she used to say, a child, when I woke
her in her little bed—‘Why, Davy!’—I can’t tell any more,—only that
when I brought her home and put her in mother’s arms, I felt as if I
was forgiven at last.”
He broke down there, and went and stood behind the window curtains,
letting no one see the grateful tears that washed away the bitterness
of those long years.
Christie had taken up the miniature and was looking at it, while her
heart sang for joy that the lost was found, when David came back to
her, wearing the same look she had seen the night she listened among
the cloaks. Moved and happy, with eager eyes and ardent manner, yet
behind it all a pale expectancy as if some great crisis was at hand:
“Christie, I never can forget that when all others, even I, cast Letty
off, you comforted and saved her. What can I do to thank you for it?”
“Be my friend, and let me be hers again,” she answered, too deeply
moved to think of any private hope or pain.
“Then the past, now that you know it all, does not change your heart to
us?”
“It only makes you dearer.”
“And if I asked you to come back to the home that has been desolate
since you went, would you come?”
“Gladly, David.”
“And if I dared to say I loved you?”
She only looked at him with a quick rising light and warmth over her
whole face; he stretched both arms to her, and, going to him, Christie
gave her answer silently.
Lovers usually ascend straight into the seventh heaven for a time:
unfortunately they cannot stay long; the air is too rarefied, the light
too brilliant, the fare too ethereal, and they are forced to come down
to mundane things, as larks drop from heaven’s gate into their grassy
nests. David was summoned from that blissful region, after a brief
enjoyment of its divine delights, by Christie, who looked up from her
new refuge with the abrupt question:
“What becomes of Kitty?”
He regarded her with a dazed expression for an instant, for she had
been speaking the delightful language of lips and eyes that lovers use,
and the old tongue sounded harsh to him.
“She is safe with her father, and is to marry the ‘other one’ next
week.”
“Heaven be praised!” ejaculated Christie, so fervently that David
looked suddenly enlightened and much amused, as he said quickly: “What
becomes of Fletcher?” “He’s safely out of the way, and I sincerely hope
he will marry some ‘other one’ as soon as possible.” “Christie, you
were jealous of that girl.” “David, you were jealous of that man.” Then
they both burst out laughing like two children, for heavy burdens had
been lifted off their hearts and they were bubbling over with
happiness.
“But truly, David, weren’t you a little jealous of P. F.?” persisted
Christie, feeling an intense desire to ask all manner of harassing
questions, with the agreeable certainty that they would be fully
answered.
“Desperately jealous. You were so kind, so gay, so altogether charming
when with him, that I could not stand by and see it, so I kept away.
Why were you never so to me?”
“Because you never showed that you cared for me, and he did. But it was
wrong in me to do it, and I repent of it heartily; for it hurt him more
than I thought it would when the experiment failed. I truly tried to
love him, but I couldn’t.”
“Yet he had so much to offer, and could give you all you most enjoy. It
is very singular that you failed to care for him, and preferred a poor
old fellow like me,” said David, beaming at her like a beatified man.
“I do love luxury and pleasure, but I love independence more. I’m
happier poking in the dirt with you than I should be driving in a fine
carriage with ‘that piece of elegance’ as Mr. Power called him; prouder
of being your wife than his; and none of the costly things he offered
me were half so precious in my sight as your little nosegays, now
mouldering away in my treasure-box upstairs. Why, Davy, I’ve longed
more intensely for the right to push up the curly lock that is always
tumbling into your eyes, than for Philip’s whole fortune. May I do it
now?”
“You may,” and Christie did it with a tender satisfaction that made
David love her the more, though he laughed like a boy at the womanly
whim.
“And so you thought I cared for Kitty?” he said presently, taking his
turn at the new game.
“How could I help it when she was so young and pretty and fond of you?”
“Was she?” innocently.
“Didn’t you see it? How blind men are!”
“Not always.”
“David, did you see that I cared for you?” asked Christie, turning
crimson under the significant glance he gave her.
“I wish I had; I confess I once or twice fancied that I caught glimpses
of bliss round the corner, as it were; but, before I could decide, the
glimpses vanished, and I was very sure I was a conceited coxcomb to
think it for a moment. It was very hard, and yet I was glad.”
“Glad!”
“Yes, because I had made a sort of vow that I’d never love or marry as
a punishment for my cruelty to Letty.”
“That was wrong, David.”
“I see it now; but it was not hard to keep that foolish vow till you
came; and you see I’ve broken it without a shadow of regret to-night.”
“You might have done it months ago and saved me so much woe if you had
not been a dear, modest, morbidly conscientious bat,” sighed Christie,
pleased and proud to learn her power, yet sorry for the long delay.
“Thank you, love. You see I didn’t find out why I liked my friend so
well till I lost her. I had just begun to feel that you were very
dear,—for after the birthday you were like an angel in the house,
Christie,—when you changed all at once, and I thought you suspected me,
and didn’t like it. Your running away when Kitty came confirmed my
fear; then in came that—would you mind if I said—confounded Fletcher?”
“Not in the least.”
“Well, as he didn’t win, I won’t be hard on him; but I gave up then and
had a tough time of it; especially that first night when this splendid
lover appeared and received such a kind welcome.”
Christie saw the strong hand that lay on David’s knee clenched slowly,
as he knit his brows with a grim look, plainly showing that he was not
what she was inclined to think him, a perfect saint.
“Oh, my heart! and there I was loving you so dearly all the time, and
you wouldn’t see or speak or understand, but went away, left me to
torment all three of us,” cried Christie with a tragic gesture.
“My dearest girl, did you ever know a man in love do, say, or think the
right thing at the right time? I never did,” said David, so penitently
that she forgave him on the spot.
“Never mind, dear. It has taught us the worth of love, and perhaps we
are the better for the seeming waste of precious time. Now I’ve not
only got you but Letty also, and your mother is mine in very truth. Ah,
how rich I am!”
“But I thought it was all over with me when I found Letty, because,
seeing no more of Fletcher, I had begun to hope again, and when she
came back to me I knew my home must be hers, yet feared you would
refuse to share it if you knew all. You are very proud, and the
purest-hearted woman I ever knew.”
“And if I had refused, you would have let me go and held fast to
Letty?”
“Yes, for I owe her every thing.”
“You should have known me better, David. But I don’t refuse, and there
is no need to choose between us.”
“No, thank heaven, and you, my Christie! Imagine what I felt when Letty
told me all you had been to her. If any thing could make me love you
more than I now do, it would be that! No, don’t hide your face; I like
to see it blush and smile and turn to me confidingly, as it has not
done all these long months.”
“Did Letty tell you what she had done for me?” asked Christie, looking
more like a rose than ever Kitty did.
“She told me every thing, and wished me to tell you all her story, even
the saddest part of it. I’d better do it now before you meet again.”
He paused as if the tale was hard to tell; but Christie put her hand on
his lips saying softly:
“Never tell it; let her past be as sacred as if she were dead. She was
my friend when I had no other: she is my dear sister now, and nothing
can ever change the love between us.”
If she had thought David’s face beautiful with gratitude when he told
the happier portions of that history, she found it doubly so when she
spared him the recital of its darkest chapter, and bade him “leave the
rest to silence.”
“Now you will come home? Mother wants you, Letty longs for you, and I
have got and mean to keep you all my life, God willing!”
“I’d better die to-night and make a blessed end, for so much happiness
is hardly possible in a world of woe,” answered Christie to that
fervent invitation.
“We shall be married very soon, take a wedding trip to any part of the
world you like, and our honeymoon will last for ever, Mrs. Sterling,
Jr.,” said David, soaring away into the future with sublime disregard
of obstacles.
Before Christie could get her breath after that somewhat startling
announcement, Mr. Power appeared, took in the situation at a glance,
gave them a smile that was a benediction, and said heartily as he
offered a hand to each:
“Now I’m satisfied; I’ve watched and waited patiently, and after many
tribulations you have found each other in good time;” then with a
meaning look at Christie he added slyly: “But David is ‘no hero’ you
know.”
She remembered the chat in the strawberry bed, laughed, and colored
brightly, as she answered with her hand trustfully in David’s, her eyes
full of loving pride and reverence lifted to his face:
“I’ve seen both sides of the medal now, and found it ‘sterling gold.’
Hero or not I’m content; for, though he ‘loves his mother much,’ there
is room in his heart for me too; his ‘old books’ have given him
something better than learning, and he has convinced me that ‘double
flowers’ are loveliest and best.”