LITTLE HEART’S-EASE.
When it was all over, the long journey home, the quiet funeral, the
first sad excitement, then came the bitter moment when life says to the
bereaved: “Take up your burden and go on alone.” Christie’s had been
the still, tearless grief hardest to bear, most impossible to comfort;
and, while Mrs. Sterling bore her loss with the sweet patience of a
pious heart, and Letty mourned her brother with the tender sorrow that
finds relief in natural ways, the widow sat among them, as tranquil,
colorless, and mute, as if her soul had followed David, leaving the
shadow of her former self behind.
“He will not come to me, but I shall go to him,” seemed to be the
thought that sustained her, and those who loved her said despairingly
to one another: “Her heart is broken: she will not linger long.”
But one woman wise in her own motherliness always answered hopefully:
“Don’t you be troubled; Nater knows what’s good for us, and works in
her own way. Hearts like this don’t break, and sorrer only makes ’em
stronger. You mark my words: the blessed baby that’s a comin’ in the
summer will work a merrycle, and you’ll see this poor dear a happy
woman yet.”
Few believed in the prophecy; but Mrs. Wilkins stoutly repeated it and
watched over Christie like a mother; often trudging up the lane in
spite of wind or weather to bring some dainty mess, some remarkable
puzzle in red or yellow calico to be used as a pattern for the little
garments the three women sewed with such tender interest, consecrated
with such tender tears; or news of the war fresh from Lisha who “was
goin’ to see it through ef he come home without a leg to stand on.” A
cheery, hopeful, wholesome influence she brought with her, and all the
house seemed to brighten as she sat there freeing her mind upon every
subject that came up, from the delicate little shirts Mrs. Sterling
knit in spite of failing eyesight, to the fall of Richmond, which, the
prophetic spirit being strong within her, Mrs. Wilkins foretold with
sibylline precision.
She alone could win a faint smile from Christie with some odd saying,
some shrewd opinion, and she alone brought tears to the melancholy eyes
that sorely needed such healing dew; for she carried little Adelaide,
and without a word put her into Christie’s arms, there to cling and
smile and babble till she had soothed the bitter pain and hunger of a
suffering heart.
She and Mr. Power held Christie up through that hard time, ministering
to soul and body with their hope and faith till life grew possible
again, and from the dust of a great affliction rose the sustaining
power she had sought so long.
As spring came on, and victory after victory proclaimed that the war
was drawing to an end, Christie’s sad resignation was broken, by gusts
of grief so stormy, so inconsolable, that those about her trembled for
her life. It was so hard to see the regiments come home proudly bearing
the torn battle-flags, weary, wounded, but victorious, to be
rapturously welcomed, thanked, and honored by the grateful country they
had served so well; to see all this and think of David in his grave
unknown, unrewarded, and forgotten by all but a faithful few.
“I used to dream of a time like this, to hope and plan for it, and
cheer myself with the assurance that, after all our hard work, our long
separation, and the dangers we had faced, David would get some honor,
receive some reward, at least be kept for me to love and serve and live
with for a little while. But these men who have merely saved a banner,
led a charge, or lost an arm, get all the glory, while he gave his life
so nobly; yet few know it, no one thanked him, and I am left desolate
when so many useless ones might have been taken in his place. Oh, it is
not just! I cannot forgive God for robbing him of all his honors, and
me of all my happiness.”
So lamented Christie with the rebellious protest of a strong nature
learning submission through the stern discipline of grief. In vain Mr.
Power told her that David had received a better reward than any human
hand could give him, in the gratitude of many women, the respect of
many men. That to do bravely the daily duties of an upright life was
more heroic in God’s sight, than to achieve in an enthusiastic moment a
single deed that won the world’s applause; and that the seeming
incompleteness of his life was beautifully rounded by the act that
caused his death, although no eulogy recorded it, no song embalmed it,
and few knew it but those he saved, those he loved, and the Great
Commander who promoted him to the higher rank he had won.
Christie could not be content with this invisible, intangible
recompense for her hero: she wanted to see, to know beyond a doubt,
that justice had been done; and beat herself against the barrier that
baffles bereaved humanity till impatient despair was wearied out, and
passionate heart gave up the struggle.
Then, when no help seemed possible, she found it where she least
expected it, in herself. Searching for religion, she had found love:
now seeking to follow love she found religion. The desire for it had
never left her, and, while serving others, she was earning this reward;
for when her life seemed to lie in ashes, from their midst, this
slender spire of flame, purifying while it burned, rose trembling
toward heaven; showing her how great sacrifices turn to greater
compensations; giving her light, warmth, and consolation, and teaching
her the lesson all must learn.
God was very patient with her, sending much help, and letting her climb
up to Him by all the tender ways in which aspiring souls can lead
unhappy hearts.
David’s room had been her refuge when those dark hours came, and
sitting there one day trying to understand the great mystery that
parted her from David, she seemed to receive an answer to her many
prayers for some sign that death had not estranged them. The house was
very still, the window open, and a soft south wind was wandering
through the room with hints of May-flowers on its wings. Suddenly a
breath of music startled her, so airy, sweet, and short-lived that no
human voice or hand could have produced it. Again and again it came, a
fitful and melodious sigh, that to one made superstitious by much
sorrow, seemed like a spirit’s voice delivering some message from
another world.
Christie looked and listened with hushed breath and expectant heart,
believing that some special answer was to be given her. But in a moment
she saw it was no supernatural sound, only the south wind whispering in
David’s flute that hung beside the window. Disappointment came first,
then warm over her sore heart flowed the tender recollection that she
used to call the old flute “David’s voice,” for into it he poured the
joy and sorrow, unrest and pain, he told no living soul. How often it
had been her lullaby, before she learned to read its language; how
gaily it had piped for others; how plaintively it had sung for him,
alone and in the night; and now how full of pathetic music was that
hymn of consolation fitfully whispered by the wind’s soft breath.
Ah, yes! this was a better answer than any supernatural voice could
have given her; a more helpful sign than any phantom face or hand; a
surer confirmation of her hope than subtle argument or sacred promise:
for it brought back the memory of the living, loving man so vividly, so
tenderly, that Christie felt as if the barrier was down, and welcomed a
new sense of David’s nearness with the softest tears that had flowed
since she closed the serene eyes whose last look had been for her.
After that hour she spent the long spring days lying on the old couch
in his room, reading his books, thinking of his love and life, and
listening to “David’s voice.” She always heard it now, whether the wind
touched the flute with airy fingers or it hung mute; and it sung to her
songs of patience, hope, and cheer, till a mysterious peace carne to
her, and she discovered in herself the strength she had asked, yet
never thought to find. Under the snow, herbs of grace had been growing
silently; and, when the heavy rains had melted all the frost away, they
sprung up to blossom beautifully in the sun that shines for every spire
of grass, and makes it perfect in its time and place.
Mrs. Wilkins was right; for one June morning, when she laid “that
blessed baby” in its mother’s arms, Christie’s first words were:
“Don’t let me die: I must live for baby now,” and gathered David’s
little daughter to her breast, as if the soft touch of the fumbling
hands had healed every wound and brightened all the world.
“I told you so; God bless ’em both!” and Mrs. Wilkins retired
precipitately to the hall, where she sat down upon the stairs and cried
most comfortable tears; for her maternal heart was full of a
thanksgiving too deep for words.
A sweet, secluded time to Christie, as she brooded over her little
treasure and forgot there was a world outside. A fond and jealous
mother, but a very happy one, for after the bitterest came the
tenderest experience of her life. She felt its sacredness, its beauty,
and its high responsibilities; accepted them prayerfully, and found
unspeakable delight in fitting herself to bear them worthily, always
remembering that she had a double duty to perform toward the fatherless
little creature given to her care.
It is hardly necessary to mention the changes one small individual made
in that feminine household. The purring and clucking that went on; the
panics over a pin-prick; the consultations over a pellet of chamomilla;
the raptures at the dawn of a first smile; the solemn prophecies of
future beauty, wit, and wisdom in the bud of a woman; the general
adoration of the entire family at the wicker shrine wherein lay the
idol, a mass of flannel and cambric with a bald head at one end, and a
pair of microscopic blue socks at the other. Mysterious little
porringers sat unreproved upon the parlor fire, small garments aired at
every window, lights burned at unholy hours, and three agitated
nightcaps congregated at the faintest chirp of the restless bird in the
maternal nest.
Of course Grandma grew young again, and produced nursery reminiscences
on every occasion; Aunt Letty trotted day and night to gratify the
imaginary wants of the idol, and Christie was so entirely absorbed that
the whole South might have been swallowed up by an earthquake without
causing her as much consternation as the appearance of a slight rash
upon the baby.
No flower in David’s garden throve like his little June rose, for no
wind was allowed to visit her too roughly; and when rain fell without,
she took her daily airing in the green-house, where from her mother’s
arms she soon regarded the gay sight with such sprightly satisfaction
that she seemed a little flower herself dancing on its stem.
She was named Ruth for grandma, but Christie always called her “Little
Heart’s-ease,” or “Pansy,” and those who smiled at first at the
mother’s fancy, came in time to see that there was an unusual fitness
in the name. All the bitterness seemed taken out of Christie’s sorrow
by the soft magic of the child: there was so much to live for now she
spoke no more of dying; and, holding that little hand in hers, it grew
easier to go on along the way that led to David.
A prouder mother never lived; and, as baby waxed in beauty and in
strength, Christie longed for all the world to see her. A sweet,
peculiar, little face she had, sunny and fair; but, under the broad
forehead where the bright hair fell as David’s used to do, there shone
a pair of dark and solemn eyes, so large, so deep, and often so
unchildlike, that her mother wondered where she got them. Even when she
smiled the shadow lingered in these eyes, and when she wept they filled
and overflowed with great, quiet tears like flowers too full of dew.
Christie often said remorsefully:
“My little Pansy! I put my own sorrow into your baby soul, and now it
looks back at me with this strange wistfulness, and these great drops
are the unsubmissive tears I locked up in my heart because I would not
be grateful for the good gift God gave me, even while he took that
other one away. O Baby, forgive your mother; and don’t let her find
that she has given you clouds instead of sunshine.”
This fear helped Christie to keep her own face cheerful, her own heart
tranquil, her own life as sunny, healthful, and hopeful as she wished
her child’s to be. For this reason she took garden and green-house into
her own hands when Bennet gave them up, and, with a stout lad to help
her, did well this part of the work that David bequeathed to her. It
was a pretty sight to see the mother with her year-old daughter out
among the fresh, green things: the little golden head bobbing here and
there like a stray sunbeam; the baby voice telling sweet,
unintelligible stories to bird and bee and butterfly; or the small
creature fast asleep in a basket under a rose-bush, swinging in a
hammock from a tree, or in Bran’s keeping, rosy, vigorous, and sweet
with sun and air, and the wholesome influence of a wise and tender
love.
While Christie worked she planned her daughter’s future, as mothers
will, and had but one care concerning it. She did not fear poverty, but
the thought of being straitened for the means of educating little Ruth
afflicted her. She meant to teach her to labor heartily and see no
degradation in it, but she could not bear to feel that her child should
be denied the harmless pleasures that make youth sweet, the
opportunities that educate, the society that ripens character and gives
a rank which money cannot buy. A little sum to put away for Baby, safe
from all risk, ready to draw from as each need came, and sacredly
devoted to this end, was now Christie’s sole ambition.
With this purpose at her heart, she watched her fruit and nursed her
flowers; found no task too hard, no sun too hot, no weed too
unconquerable; and soon the garden David planted when his life seemed
barren, yielded lovely harvests to swell his little daughter’s portion.
One day Christie received a letter from Uncle Enos expressing a wish to
see her if she cared to come so far and “stop a spell.” It both
surprised and pleased her, and she resolved to go, glad that the old
man remembered her, and proud to show him the great success of her
life, as she considered Baby.
So she went, was hospitably received by the ancient cousin five times
removed who kept house, and greeted with as much cordiality as Uncle
Enos ever showed to any one. He looked askance at Baby, as if he had
not bargained for the honor of her presence; but he said nothing, and
Christie wisely refrained from mentioning that Ruth was the most
remarkable child ever born.
She soon felt at home, and went about the old house visiting familiar
nooks with the bitter, sweet satisfaction of such returns. It was sad
to miss Aunt Betsey in the big kitchen, strange to see Uncle Enos sit
all day in his arm-chair too helpless now to plod about the farm and
carry terror to the souls of those who served him. He was still a
crabbed, gruff, old man; but the narrow, hard, old heart was a little
softer than it used to be; and he sometimes betrayed the longing for
his kindred that the aged often feel when infirmity makes them desire
tenderer props than any they can hire.
Christie saw this wish, and tried to gratify it with a dutiful
affection which could not fail to win its way. Baby unconsciously lent
a hand, for Uncle Enos could not long withstand the sweet enticements
of this little kinswoman. He did not own the conquest in words, but was
seen to cuddle his small captivator in private; allowed all sorts of
liberties with his spectacles, his pockets, and bald pate; and never
seemed more comfortable than when she confiscated his newspaper, and
sitting on his knee read it to him in a pretty language of her own.
“She’s a good little gal; looks consid’able like you; but you warn’t
never such a quiet puss as she is,” he said one day, as the child was
toddling about the room with an old doll of her mother’s lately
disinterred from its tomb in the garret.
“She is like her father in that. But I get quieter as I grow old,
uncle,” answered Christie, who sat sewing near him.
“You be growing old, that’s a fact; but somehow it’s kind of becomin’.
I never thought you’d be so much of a lady, and look so well after all
you’ve ben through,” added Uncle Enos, vainly trying to discover what
made Christie’s manners so agreeable in spite of her plain dress, and
her face so pleasant in spite of the gray hair at her temples and the
lines about her mouth.
It grew still pleasanter to see as she smiled and looked up at him with
the soft yet bright expression that always made him think of her
mother.
“I’m glad you don’t consider me an entire failure, uncle. You know you
predicted it. But though I have gone through a good deal, I don’t
regret my attempt, and when I look at Pansy I feel as if I’d made a
grand success.”
“You haven’t made much money, I guess. If you don’t mind tellin’, what
have you got to live on?” asked the old man, unwilling to acknowledge
any life a success, if dollars and cents were left out of it.
“Only David’s pension and what I can make by my garden.”
“The old lady has to have some on’t, don’t she?” “She has a little
money of her own; but I see that she and Letty have two-thirds of all I
make.”
“That ain’t a fair bargain if you do all the work.” “Ah, but we don’t
make bargains, sir: we work for one another and share every thing
together.”
“So like women!” grumbled Uncle Enos, longing to see that “the property
was fixed up square.”
[Illustration: “SHE’S A GOOD LITTLE GAL! LOOKS CONSID’ABLE LIKE YOU.”]
“How are you goin’ to eddicate the little gal? I s’pose you think as
much of culter and so on as ever you did,” he presently added with a
gruff laugh.
“More,” answered Christie, smiling too, as she remembered the old
quarrels. “I shall earn the money, sir. If the garden fails I can
teach, nurse, sew, write, cook even, for I’ve half a dozen useful
accomplishments at my fingers’ ends, thanks to the education you and
dear Aunt Betsey gave me, and I may have to use them all for Pansy’s
sake.”
Pleased by the compliment, yet a little conscience-stricken at the
small share he deserved of it, Uncle Enos sat rubbing up his glasses a
minute, before he led to the subject he had in his mind.
“Ef you fall sick or die, what then?”
“I’ve thought of that,” and Christie caught up the child as if her love
could keep even death at bay. But Pansy soon struggled down again, for
the dirty-faced doll was taking a walk and could not be detained. “If I
am taken from her, then my little girl must do as her mother did. God
has orphans in His special care, and He won’t forget her I am sure.”
Uncle Enos had a coughing spell just then; and, when he got over it, he
said with an effort, for even to talk of giving away his substance cost
him a pang:
“I’m gettin’ into years now, and it’s about time I fixed up matters in
case I’m took suddin’. I always meant to give you a little suthing, but
as you didn’t ask for’t, I took good care on ’t, and it ain’t none the
worse for waitin’ a spell. I jest speak on’t, so you needn’t be anxious
about the little gal. It ain’t much, but it will make things easy I
reckon.”
“You are very kind, uncle; and I am more grateful than I can tell. I
don’t want a penny for myself, but I should love to know that my
daughter was to have an easier life than mine.”
“I s’pose you thought of that when you come so quick?” said the old
man, with a suspicious look, that made Christie’s eyes kindle as they
used to years ago, but she answered honestly:
“I did think of it and hope it, yet I should have come quicker if you
had been in the poor-house.”
Neither spoke for a minute; for, in spite of generosity and gratitude,
the two natures struck fire when they met as inevitably as flint and
steel.
“What’s your opinion of missionaries,” asked Uncle Enos, after a spell
of meditation.
“If I had any money to leave them, I should bequeath it to those who
help the heathen here at home, and should let the innocent Feejee
Islanders worship their idols a little longer in benighted peace,”
answered Christie, in her usual decided way.
“That’s my idee exactly; but it’s uncommon hard to settle which of them
that stays at home you’ll trust your money to. You see Betsey was
always pesterin’ me to give to charity things; but I told her it was
better to save up and give it in a handsome lump that looked well, and
was a credit to you. When she was dyin’ she reminded me on’t, and I
promised I’d do suthing before I follered. I’ve been turnin’ on’t over
in my mind for a number of months, and I don’t seem to find any thing
that’s jest right. You’ve ben round among the charity folks lately
accordin’ to your tell, now what would you do if you had a tidy little
sum to dispose on?”
“Help the Freed people.”
The answer came so quick that it nearly took the old gentleman’s breath
away, and he looked at his niece with his mouth open after an
involuntary, “Sho!” had escaped him.
“David helped give them their liberty, and I would so gladly help them
to enjoy it!” cried Christie, all the old enthusiasm blazing up, but
with a clearer, steadier flame than in the days when she dreamed
splendid dreams by the kitchen fire.
“Well, no, that wouldn’t meet my views. What else is there?” asked the
old man quite unwarmed by her benevolent ardor.
“Wounded soldiers, destitute children, ill-paid women, young people
struggling for independence, homes, hospitals, schools, churches, and
God’s charity all over the world.”
“That’s the pesky part on ’t: there’s such a lot to choose from; I
don’t know much about any of ’em,” began Uncle Enos, looking like a
perplexed raven with a treasure which it cannot decide where to hide.
“Whose fault is that, sir?”
The question hit the old man full in the conscience, and he winced,
remembering how many of Betsey’s charitable impulses he had nipped in
the bud, and now all the accumulated alms she would have been so glad
to scatter weighed upon him heavily. He rubbed his bald head with a
yellow bandana, and moved uneasily in his chair, as if he wanted to get
up and finish the neglected job that made his helplessness so
burdensome.
“I’ll ponder on ’t a spell, and make up my mind,” was all he said, and
never renewed the subject again.
But he had very little time to ponder, and he never did make up his
mind; for a few months after Christie’s long visit ended, Uncle Enos
“was took suddin’,” and left all he had to her.
Not an immense fortune, but far larger than she expected, and great was
her anxiety to use wisely this unlooked-for benefaction. She was very
grateful, but she kept nothing for herself, feeling that David’s
pension was enough, and preferring the small sum he earned so dearly to
the thousands the old man had hoarded up for years. A good portion was
put by for Ruth, something for “mother and Letty” that want might never
touch them, and the rest she kept for David’s work, believing that, so
spent, the money would be blest.