University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
SEAMSTRESS.

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 work-room
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 down 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

[ILLUSTRATION]

Mrs. King and Miss Cotton.

[Description: 445EAF. Page 136. In-line image of Mrs. King standing over and lecturing a disgruntled Miss Cotton.]

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.

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
some 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.