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