________________________________________________
_ FOR some weeks Christie rested and refreshed herself by making her
room gay and comfortable with the gifts lavished on her by the
Carrols, and by sharing with others the money which Harry had
smuggled into her possession after she had steadily refused to take
one penny more than the sum agreed upon when she first went to them.
She took infinite satisfaction in sending one hundred dollars to
Uncle Enos, for she had accepted what he gave her as a loan, and set
her heart on repaying every fraction of it. Another hundred she gave
to Hepsey, who found her out and came to report her trials and
tribulations. The good soul had ventured South and tried to buy her
mother. But "ole missis" would not let her go at any price, and the
faithful chattel would not run away. Sorely disappointed, Hepsey had
been obliged to submit; but her trip was not a failure, for she
liberated several brothers and sent them triumphantly to Canada.
"You must take it, Hepsey, for I could not rest happy if I put it
away to lie idle while you can save men and women from torment with
it. I'd give it if it was my last penny, for I can help in no other
way; and if I need money, I can always earn it, thank God!" said
Christie, as Hepsey hesitated to take so much from a fellow-worker.
The thought of that investment lay warm at Christie's heart, and
never woke a regret, for well she knew that every dollar of it would
be blessed, since shares in the Underground Railroad pay splendid
dividends that never fail.
Another portion of her fortune, as she called Harry's gift, was
bestowed in wedding presents upon Lucy, who at length succeeded in
winning the heart of the owner of the "heavenly eyes" and
"distracting legs;" and, having gained her point, married him with
dramatic celerity, and went West to follow the fortunes of her lord.
The old theatre was to be demolished and the company scattered, so a
farewell festival was held, and Christie went to it, feeling more
solitary than ever as she bade her old friends a long good-bye.
The rest of the money burned in her pocket, but she prudently put it
by for a rainy day, and fell to work again when her brief vacation
was over.
Hearing of a chance for a good needle-woman in a large and
well-conducted mantua-making establishment, she secured it as a
temporary thing, for she wanted to divert her mind from that last
sad experience by entirely different employment and surroundings.
She liked to return at night to her own little home, solitary and
simple as it was, and felt a great repugnance to accept any place
where she would be mixed up with family affairs again.
So day after day she went to her seat in the workroom where a dozen
other young women sat sewing busily on gay garments, with as much
lively gossip to beguile the time as Miss Cotton, the forewoman,
would allow.
For a while it diverted Christie, as she had a feminine love for
pretty things, and enjoyed seeing delicate silks, costly lace, and
all the indescribable fantasies of fashion. But as spring came on,
the old desire for something fresh and free began to haunt her, and
she had both waking and sleeping dreams of a home in the country
somewhere, with cows and flowers, clothes bleaching on green grass,
bob-o'-links making rapturous music by the river, and the smell of
new-mown hay, all lending their charms to the picture she painted
for herself.
Most assuredly she would have gone to find these things, led by the
instincts of a healthful nature, had not one slender tie held her
till it grew into a bond so strong she could not break it.
Among her companions was one, and one only, who attracted her. The
others were well-meaning girls, but full of the frivolous purposes
and pleasures which their tastes prompted and their dull life
fostered. Dress, gossip, and wages were the three topics which
absorbed them. Christie soon tired of the innumerable changes rung
upon these themes, and took refuge in her own thoughts, soon
learning to enjoy them undisturbed by the clack of many tongues
about her. Her evenings at home were devoted to books, for she had
the true New England woman's desire for education, and read or
studied for the love of it. Thus she had much to think of as her
needle flew, and was rapidly becoming a sort of sewing-machine when
life was brightened for her by the finding of a friend.
Among the girls was one quiet, skilful creature, whose black dress,
peculiar face, and silent ways attracted Christie. Her evident
desire to be let alone amused the new comer at first, and she made
no effort to know her. But presently she became aware that Rachel
watched her with covert interest, stealing quick, shy glances at her
as she sat musing over her work. Christie smiled at her when she
caught these glances, as if to reassure the looker of her good-will.
But Rachel only colored, kept her eyes fixed on her work, and was
more reserved than ever.
This interested Christie, and she fell to studying this young woman
with some curiosity, for she was different from the others. Though
evidently younger than she looked, Rachel's face was that of one who
had known some great sorrow, some deep experience; for there were
lines on the forehead that contrasted strongly with the bright,
abundant hair above it; in repose, the youthfully red, soft lips had
a mournful droop, and the eyes were old with that indescribable
expression which comes to those who count their lives by emotions,
not by years.
Strangely haunting eyes to Christie, for they seemed to appeal to
her with a mute eloquence she could not resist. In vain did Rachel
answer her with quiet coldness, nod silently when she wished her a
cheery "good morning," and keep resolutely in her own somewhat
isolated corner, though invited to share the sunny window where the
other sat. Her eyes belied her words, and those fugitive glances
betrayed the longing of a lonely heart that dared not yield itself
to the genial companionship so freely offered it.
Christie was sure of this, and would not be repulsed; for her own
heart was very solitary. She missed Helen, and longed to fill the
empty place. She wooed this shy, cold girl as patiently and as
gently as a lover might, determined to win her confidence, because
all the others had failed to do it. Sometimes she left a flower in
Rachel's basket, always smiled and nodded as she entered, and often
stopped to admire the work of her tasteful fingers. It was
impossible to resist such friendly overtures, and slowly Rachel's
coldness melted; into the beseeching eyes came a look of gratitude,
the more touching for its wordlessness, and an irrepressible smile
broke over her face in answer to the cordial ones that made the
sunshine of her day.
Emboldened by these demonstrations, Christie changed her seat, and
quietly established between them a daily interchange of something
beside needles, pins, and spools. Then, as Rachel did not draw back
offended, she went a step farther, and, one day when they chanced to
be left alone to finish off a delicate bit of work, she spoke out
frankly:
"Why can't we be friends? I want one sadly, and so do you, unless
your looks deceive me. We both seem to be alone in the world, to
have had trouble, and to like one another. I won't annoy you by any
impertinent curiosity, nor burden you with uninteresting
confidences; I only want to feel that you like me a little and don't
mind my liking you a great deal. Will you be my friend, and let me
be yours?"
A great tear rolled clown upon the shining silk in Rachel's hands as
she looked into Christie's earnest face, and answered with an almost
passionate gratitude in her own:
"You can never need a friend as much as I do, or know what a blessed
thing it is to find such an one as you are."
"Then I may love you, and not be afraid of offending?" cried
Christie, much touched.
"Yes. But remember I didn't ask it first," said Rachel, half
dropping the hand she had held in both her own.
"You proud creature! I'll remember; and when we quarrel, I'll take
all the blame upon myself."
Then Christie kissed her warmly, whisked away the tear, and began to
paint the delights in store for them in her most enthusiastic way,
being much elated with her victory; while Rachel listened with a
newly kindled light in her lovely eyes, and a smile that showed how
winsome her face had been before many tears washed its bloom away,
and much trouble made it old too soon.
Christie kept her word,--asked no questions, volunteered no
confidences, but heartily enjoyed the new friendship, and found that
it gave to life the zest which it had lacked before. Now some one
cared for her, and, better still, she could make some one happy, and
in the act of lavishing the affection of her generous nature on a
creature sadder and more solitary than herself, she found a
satisfaction that never lost its charm. There was nothing in her
possession that she did not offer Rachel, from the whole of her
heart to the larger half of her little room.
"I'm tired of thinking only of myself. It makes me selfish and
low-spirited; for I'm not a bit interesting. I must love somebody,
and 'love them hard,' as children say; so why can't you come and
stay with me? There's room enough, and we could be so cosy evenings
with our books and work. I know you need some one to look after you,
and I love dearly to take care of people. Do come," she would say,
with most persuasive hospitality.
But Rachel always answered steadily: "Not yet, Christie, not yet. I
've got something to do before I can think of doing any thing so
beautiful as that. Only love me, dear, and some day I'll show you
all my heart, and thank you as I ought."
So Christie was content to wait, and, meantime, enjoyed much; for,
with Rachel as a friend, she ceased to care for country pleasures,
found happiness in the work that gave her better food than mere
daily bread, and never thought of change; for love can make a home
for itself anywhere.
A very bright and happy time was this in Christie's life; but, like
most happy times, it was very brief. Only one summer allowed for the
blossoming of the friendship that budded so slowly in the spring;
then the frost came and killed the flowers; but the root lived long
underneath the snows of suffering, doubt, and absence.
Coming to her work late one morning, she found the usually orderly
room in confusion. Some of the girls were crying; some whispering
together,--all looking excited and dismayed. Mrs. King sat
majestically at her table, with an ominous frown upon her face. Miss
Cotton stood beside her, looking unusually sour and stern, for the
ancient virgin's temper was not of the best. Alone, before them all,
with her face hidden in her hands, and despair in every line of her
drooping figure, stood Rachel,--a meek culprit at the stern bar of
justice, where women try a sister woman.
"What's the matter?" cried Christie, pausing on the threshold.
MRS. KING AND MISS COTTON.
Rachel shivered, as if the sound of that familiar voice was a fresh
wound, but she did not lift her head; and Mrs. King answered, with a
nervous emphasis that made the bugles of her head-dress rattle
dismally:
"A very sad thing, Miss Devon,--very sad, indeed; a thing which
never occurred in my establishment before, and never shall again. It
appears that Rachel, whom we all considered a most respectable and
worthy girl, has been quite the reverse. I shudder to think what the
consequences of my taking her without a character (a thing I never
do, and was only tempted by her superior taste as a trimmer) might
have been if Miss Cotton, having suspicions, had not made strict
inquiry and confirmed them."
"That was a kind and generous act, and Miss Cotton must feel proud
of it," said Christie, with an indignant recollection of Mr.
Fletcher's "cautious inquiries" about herself.
"It was perfectly right and proper, Miss Devon; and I thank her for
her care of my interests." And Mrs. King bowed her acknowledgment of
the service with a perfect castanet accompaniment, whereat Miss
Cotton bridled with malicious complacency.
"Mrs. King, are you sure of this?" said Christie. "Miss Cotton does
not like Rachel because her work is so much praised. May not her
jealousy make her unjust, or her zeal for you mislead her?"
"I thank you for your polite insinuations, miss," returned the irate
forewoman. "I never make mistakes; but you will find that you have
made a very great one in choosing Rachel for your bosom friend
instead of gome one who would be a credit to you. Ask the creature
herself if all I've said of her isn't true. She can't deny it."
With the same indefinable misgiving which had held her aloof,
Christie turned to Rachel, lifted up the hidden face with gentle
force, and looked into it imploringly, as she whispered: "Is it
true?"
The woful countenance she saw made any other answer needless.
Involuntarily her hands fell away, and she hid her own face,
uttering the one reproach, which, tender and tearful though it was,
seemed harder to be borne than the stern condemnation gone before.
"Oh, Rachel, I so loved and trusted you!"
The grief, affection, and regret that trembled in her voice roused
Rachel from her state of passive endurance and gave her courage to
plead for herself. But it was Christie whom she addressed, Christie
whose pardon she implored, Christie's sorrowful reproach that she
most keenly felt.
"Yes, it is true," she said, looking only at the woman who had been
the first to befriend and now was the last to desert her. "It is
true that I once went astray, but God knows I have repented; that
for years I've tried to be an honest girl again, and that but for
His help I should be a far sadder creature than I am this day.
Christie, you can never know how bitter hard it is to outlive a sin
like mine, and struggle up again from such a fall. It clings to me;
it won't be shaken off or buried out of sight. No sooner do I find a
safe place like this, and try to forget the past, than some one
reads my secret in my face and hunts me down. It seems very cruel,
very hard, yet it is my punishment, so I try to bear it, and begin
again. What hurts me now more than all the rest, what breaks my
heart, is that I deceived you. I never meant to do it. I did not
seek you, did I? I tried to be cold and stiff; never asked for love,
though starving for it, till you came to me, so kind, so generous,
so dear,--how could I help it? Oh, how could I help it then?"
Christie had watched Rachel while she spoke, and spoke to her alone;
her heart yearned toward this one friend, for she still loved her,
and, loving, she believed in her.
"I don't reproach you, dear: I don't despise or desert you, and
though I'm grieved and disappointed, I'll stand by you still,
because you need me more than ever now, and I want to prove that I
am a true friend. Mrs. King, please forgive and let poor Rachel stay
here, safe among us."
"Miss Devon, I'm surprised at you! By no means; it would be the
ruin of my establishment; not a girl would remain, and the character
of my rooms would be lost for ever," replied Mrs. King, goaded on by
the relentless Cotton.
"But where will she go if you send her away? Who will employ her if
you inform against her? What stranger will believe in her if we, who
have known her so long, fail to befriend her now? Mrs. King, think
of your own daughters, and be a mother to this poor girl for their
sake."
That last stroke touched the woman's heart; her cold eye softened,
her hard mouth relaxed, and pity was about to win the day, when
prudence, in the shape of Miss Cotton, turned the scale, for that
spiteful spinster suddenly cried out, in a burst of righteous wrath:
"If that hussy stays, I leave this establishment for ever!" and
followed up the blow by putting on her bonnet with a flourish.
At this spectacle, self-interest got the better of sympathy in Mrs.
King's worldly mind. To lose Cotton was to lose her right hand, and
charity at that price was too expensive a luxury to be indulged in;
so she hardened her heart, composed her features, and said,
impressively:
"Take off your bonnet, Cotton; I have no intention of offending you,
or any one else, by such a step. I forgive you, Rachel, and I pity
you; but I can't think of allowing you to stay. There are proper
institutions for such as you, and I advise you to go to one and
repent. You were paid Saturday night, so nothing prevents your
leaving at once. Time is money here, and we are wasting it. Young
ladies, take your seats."
All but Christie obeyed, yet no one touched a needle, and Mrs. King
sat, hurriedly stabbing pins into the fat cushion on her breast, as
if testing the hardness of her heart.
Rachel's eye went round the room; saw pity, aversion, or contempt,
on every face, but met no answering glance, for even Christie's eyes
were bent thoughtfully on the ground, and Christie's heart seemed
closed against her. As she looked her whole manner changed; her
tears ceased to fall, her face grew hard, and a reckless mood seemed
to take possession of her, as if finding herself deserted by
womankind, she would desert her own womanhood.
"I might have known it would be so," she said abruptly, with a
bitter smile, sadder to see than her most hopeless tears. "It's no
use for such as me to try; better go back to the old life, for there
are kinder hearts among the sinners than among the saints, and no
one can live without a bit of love. Your Magdalen Asylums are
penitentiaries, not homes; I won't go to any of them. Your piety
isn't worth much, for though you read in your Bible how the Lord
treated a poor soul like me, yet when I stretch out my hand to you
for help, not one of all you virtuous, Christian women dare take it
and keep me from a life that's worse than hell."
As she spoke Rachel flung out her hand with a half-defiant gesture,
and Christie took it. That touch, full of womanly compassion, seemed
to exorcise the desperate spirit that possessed the poor girl in her
despair, for, with a stifled exclamation, she sunk down at
Christie's feet, and lay there weeping in all the passionate
abandonment of love and gratitude, remorse and shame. Never had
human voice sounded so heavenly sweet to her as that which broke the
silence of the room, as this one friend said, with the earnestness
of a true and tender heart:
"Mrs. King, if you send her away, I must take her in; for if she
does go back to the old life, the sin of it will lie at our door,
and God will remember it against us in the end. Some one must trust
her, help her, love her, and so save her, as nothing else will.
Perhaps I can do this better than you,--at least, I'll try; for even
if I risk the loss of my good name, I could bear that better than
the thought that Rachel had lost the work of these hard years for
want of upholding now. She shall come home with me; no one there
need know of this discovery, and I will take any work to her that
you will give me, to keep her from want and its temptations. Will
you do this, and let me sew for less, if I can pay you for the
kindness in no other way?"
Poor Mrs. King was "much tumbled up and down in her own mind;" she
longed to consent, but Cotton's eye was upon her, and Cotton's
departure would be an irreparable loss, so she decided to end the
matter in the most summary manner. Plunging a particularly large pin
into her cushioned breast, as if it was a relief to inflict that
mock torture upon herself, she said sharply:
"It is impossible. You can do as you please, Miss Devon, but I
prefer to wash my hands of the affair at once and entirely."
Christie's eye went from the figure at her feet to the hard-featured
woman who had been a kind and just mistress until now, and she
asked, anxiously:
"Do you mean that you wash your hands of me also, if I stand by
Rachel?"
"I do. I'm very sorry, but my young ladies must keep respectable
company, or leave my service," was the brief reply, for Mrs. King
grew grimmer externally as the mental rebellion increased
internally.
"Then I will leave it!" cried Christie, with an indignant voice and
eye. "Come, dear, we'll go together." And without a look or word for
any in the room, she raised the prostrate girl, and led her out into
the little hall.
There she essayed to comfort her, but before many words had passed
her lips Rachel looked up, and she was silent with surprise, for the
face she saw was neither despairing nor defiant, but beautifully
sweet and clear, as the unfallen spirit of the woman shone through
the grateful eyes, and blessed her for her loyalty.
"Christie, you have done enough for me," she said. "Go back, and
keep the good place you need, for such are hard to find. I can get
on alone; I'm used to this, and the pain will soon be over."
"I'll not go back!" cried Christie, hotly. "I'll do slop-work and
starve, before I'll stay with such a narrow-minded, cold-hearted
woman. Come home with me at once, and let us lay our plans
together."
"No, dear; if I wouldn't go when you first asked me, much less will
I go now, for I've done you harm enough already. I never can thank
you for your great goodness to me, never tell you what it has been
to me. We must part now; but some day I'll come back and show you
that I've not forgotten how you loved and helped and trusted me,
when all the others cast me off."
Vain were Christie's arguments and appeals. Rachel was immovable,
and all her friend could win from her was a promise to send word,
now and then, how things prospered with her.
"And, Rachel, I charge you to come to me in any strait, no matter
what it is, no matter where I am; for if any thing could break my
heart, it would be to know that you had gone back to the old life,
because there was no one to help and hold you up."
"I never can go back; you have saved me, Christie, for you love me,
you have faith in me, and that will keep me strong and safe when you
are gone. Oh, my dear, my dear, God bless you for ever and for
ever!"
Then Christie, remembering only that they were two loving women,
alone in a world of sin and sorrow, took Rachel in her arms, kissed
and cried over her with sisterly affection, and watched her
prayerfully, as she went away to begin her hard task anew, with
nothing but the touch of innocent lips upon her cheek, the baptism,
of tender tears upon her forehead to keep her from despair.
Still cherishing the hope that Rachel would come back to her,
Christie neither returned to Mrs. King nor sought another place of
any sort, but took home work from a larger establishment, and sat
sewing diligently in her little room, waiting, hoping, longing for
her friend. But month after month went by, and no word, no sign came
to comfort her. She would not doubt, yet she could not help fearing,
and in her nightly prayer no petition was more fervently made than
that which asked the Father of both saint and sinner to keep poor
Rachel safe, and bring her back in his good time.
Never had she been so lonely as now, for Christie had a social
heart, and, having known the joy of a cordial friendship even for a
little while, life seemed very barren to her when she lost it. No
new friend took Rachel's place, for none came to her, and a feeling
of loyalty kept her from seeking one. But she suffered for the want
of genial society, for all the tenderness of her nature seemed to
have been roused by that brief but most sincere affection. Her
hungry heart clamored for the happiness that was its right, and grew
very heavy as she watched friends or lovers walking in the summer
twilight when she took her evening stroll. Often her eyes followed
some humble pair, longing to bless and to be blessed by the divine
passion whose magic beautifies the little milliner and her lad with
the same tender grace as the poet and the mistress whom he makes
immortal in a song. But neither friend nor lover came to Christie,
and she said to herself, with a sad sort of courage:
"I shall be solitary all my life, perhaps; so the sooner I make up
my mind to it, the easier it will be to bear."
At Christmas-tide she made a little festival for herself, by giving
to each of the household drudges the most generous gift she could
afford, for no one else thought of them, and having known some of
the hardships of servitude herself, she had much sympathy with those
in like case.
Then, with the pleasant recollection of two plain faces, brightened
by gratitude, surprise, and joy, she went out into the busy streets
to forget the solitude she left behind her.
Very gay they were with snow and sleigh-bells, holly-boughs, and
garlands, below, and Christmas sunshine in the winter sky above. All
faces shone, all voices had a cheery ring, and everybody stepped
briskly on errands of good-will. Up and down went Christie, making
herself happy in the happiness of others. Looking in at the
shop-windows, she watched, with interest, the purchases of busy
parents, calculating how best to fill the little socks hung up at
home, with a childish faith that never must be disappointed, no
matter how hard the times might be. She was glad to see so many
turkeys on their way to garnish hospitable tables, and hoped that
all the dear home circles might be found unbroken, though she had
place in none. No Christmas-tree went by leaving a whiff of piny
sweetness behind, that she did not wish it all success, and picture
to herself the merry little people dancing in its light. And
whenever she saw a ragged child eying a window full of goodies,
smiling even, while it shivered, she could not resist playing Santa
Claus till her purse was empty, sending the poor little souls
enraptured home with oranges and apples in either hand, and splendid
sweeties in their pockets, for the babies.
No envy mingled with the melancholy that would not be dispelled even
by these gentle acts, for her heart was very tender that night, and
if any one had asked what gifts she desired most, she would have
answered with a look more pathetic than any shivering child had
given her:
"I want the sound of a loving voice; the touch of a friendly hand."
Going home, at last, to the lonely little room where no Christmas
fire burned, no tree shone, no household group awaited her, she
climbed the long, dark stairs, with drops on her cheeks, warmer than
any melted snow-flake could have left, and opening her door paused
on the threshold, smiling with wonder and delight, for in her
absence some gentle spirit had remembered her. A fire burned
cheerily upon the hearth, her lamp was lighted, a lovely rose-tree,
in full bloom, filled the air with its delicate breath, and in its
shadow lay a note from Rachel.
"A merry Christmas and a happy New Year, Christie! Long ago you gave
me your little rose; I have watched and tended it for your sake,
dear, and now when I want to show my love and thankfulness, I give
it back again as my one treasure. I crept in while you were gone,
because I feared I might harm you in some way if you saw me. I
longed to stay and tell you that I am safe and well, and busy, with
your good face looking into mine, but I don't deserve that yet. Only
love me, trust me, pray for me, and some day you shall know what you
have done for me. Till then, God bless and keep you, dearest friend,
your RACHEL."
Never had sweeter tears fallen than those that dropped upon the
little tree as Christie took it in her arms, and all the rosy
clusters leaned toward her as if eager to deliver tender messages.
Surely her wish was granted now, for friendly hands had been at work
for her. Warm against her heart lay words as precious as if uttered
by a loving voice, and nowhere, on that happy night, stood a fairer
Christmas tree than that which bloomed so beautifully from the heart
of a Magdalen who loved much and was forgiven. _
Read next: CHAPTER VII. THROUGH THE MIST
Read previous: CHAPTER V. COMPANION
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