University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
IN THE STRAWBERRY BED.

FROM that day a new life began for Christie, a
happy, quiet, useful life, utterly unlike any of
the brilliant futures she had planned for herself; yet
indescribably pleasant to her now, for past experience
had taught her its worth, and made her ready to
enjoy it.

Never had spring seemed so early or so fair, never
had such a crop of hopeful thoughts and happy feelings
sprung up in her heart as now; and nowhere was
there a brighter face, a blither voice, or more willing
hands than Christie's when the apple blossoms came.

This was what she needed, the protection of a
home, wholesome cares and duties; and, best of all,
friends to live and labor for, loving and beloved. Her
whole soul was in her work now, and as health returned,
much of the old energy and cheerfulness came with it,
a little sobered, but more sweet and earnest than ever.
No task was too hard or humble; no day long enough
to do all she longed to do; and no sacrifice would have
seemed too great for those whom she regarded with
steadily increasing love and gratitude.

Up at dawn, the dewy freshness of the hour, the

morning rapture of the birds, the daily miracle of sunrise,
set her heart in tune, and gave her Nature's most
healing balm. She kept the little house in order, with
Mrs. Sterling to direct and share the labor so pleasantly,
that mistress and maid soon felt like mother and
daughter, and Christie often said she did not care for
any other wages.

The house-work of this small family was soon done,
and then Christie went to tasks that she liked better.
Much out-of-door life was good for her, and in garden
and green-house there was plenty of light labor she
could do. So she grubbed contentedly in the wholesome
earth, weeding and potting, learning to prune
and bud, and finding Mrs. Wilkins was quite right in
her opinion of the sanitary virtues of dirt.

Trips to town to see the good woman and carry
country gifts to the little folks; afternoon drives with
Mrs. Sterling in the old-fashioned chaise, drawn by the
Roman-nosed horse, and Sunday pilgrimages to church
to be “righted up” by one of Mr. Power's stirring sermons,
were among her new pleasures. But, on the
whole, the evenings were her happiest times: for then
David read aloud while she worked; she sung to the
old piano tuned for her use; or, better still, as spring
came on, they sat in the porch, and talked as people
only do talk when twilight, veiling the outer world,
seems to lift the curtains of that inner world where
minds go exploring, hearts learn to know one another,
and souls walk together in the cool of the day.

At such times Christie seemed to catch glimpses of
another David than the busy, cheerful man apparently
contented with the humdrum duties of an obscure,

laborious life, and the few unexciting pleasures
afforded by books, music, and much silent thought.
She sometimes felt with a woman's instinct that under
this composed, commonplace existence another life
went on; for, now and then, in the interest of conversation,
or the involuntary yielding to a confidential
impulse, a word, a look, a gesture, betrayed an unexpected
power and passion, a secret unrest, a bitter
memory that would not be ignored.

Only at rare moments did she catch these glimpses,
and so brief, so indistinct, were they that she half
believed her own lively fancy created them. She longed
to know more; but “David's trouble” made him sacred
in her eyes from any prying curiosity, and always after
one of these twilight betrayals Christie found him so
like his unromantic self next day, that she laughed and
said:

“I never shall outgrow my foolish way of trying to
make people other than they are. Gods are gone,
heroes hard to find, and one should be contented with
good men, even if they do wear old clothes, lead prosaic
lives, and have no accomplishments but gardening,
playing the flute, and keeping their temper.”

She felt the influences of that friendly place at once;
but for a time she wondered at the natural way in
which kind things were done, the protective care extended
over her, and the confiding air with which these
people treated her. They asked no questions, demanded
no explanations, seemed unconscious of conferring
favors, and took her into their life so readily that she
marvelled, even while she rejoiced, at the good fortune
which led her there.

She understood this better when she discovered, what
Mr. Power had not mentioned, that the little cottage
was a sort of refuge for many women like herself; a
half-way house where they could rest and recover themselves
after the wrongs, defeats, and weariness that come
to such in the battle of life.

With a chivalry older and finer than any Spenser
sung, Mr. Power befriended these forlorn souls, and
David was his faithful squire. Whoever knocked at
that low door was welcomed, warmed, and fed; comforted,
and set on their way, cheered and strengthened
by the sweet good-will that made charity no burden,
and restored to the more desperate and despairing
their faith in human nature and God's love.

There are many such green spots in this world of
ours, which often seems so bad that a second Deluge
could hardly wash it clean again; and these beneficent,
unostentatious asylums are the salvation of more
troubled souls than many a great institution gilded all
over with the rich bequests of men who find themselves
too heavily laden to enter in at the narrow gate of
heaven.

Happy the foot-sore, heart-weary traveller who turns
from the crowded, dusty highway down the green lane
that leads to these humble inns, where the sign of the
Good Samaritan is written on the face of whomsoever
opens to the stranger, and refreshment for soul and
body is freely given in the name of Him who loved the
poor.

Mr. Power came now and then, for his large parish
left him but little time to visit any but the needy.
Christie enjoyed these brief visits heartily, for her new

friends soon felt that she was one of them, and cordially
took her into the large circle of workers and
believers to which they belonged.

Mr. Power's heart was truly an orphan asylum, and
every lonely creature found a welcome there. He
could rebuke sin sternly, yet comfort and uplift the
sinner with fatherly compassion; righteous wrath would
flash from his eyes at injustice, and contempt sharpen
his voice as he denounced hypocrisy: yet the eyes
that lightened would dim with pity for a woman's
wrong, a child's small sorrow; and the voice that
thundered would whisper consolation like a mother, or
give counsel with a wisdom books cannot teach.

He was a Moses in his day and generation, born to
lead his people out of the bondage of dead superstitions,
and go before them through a Red Sea of persecution
into the larger liberty and love all souls hunger
for, and many are just beginning to find as they come
doubting, yet desiring, into the goodly land such pioneers
as he have planted in the wilderness.

He was like a tonic to weak natures and wavering
wills; and Christie felt a general revival going on within
herself as her knowledge, honor, and affection for him
grew. His strength seemed to uphold her; his integrity
to rebuke all unworthiness in her own life; and the
magic of his generous, genial spirit to make the hard
places smooth, the bitter things sweet, and the world
seem a happier, honester place than she had ever
thought it since her father died.

Mr. Power had been interested in her from the first;
had watched her through other eyes, and tried her by
various unsuspected tests. She stood them well;

showed her faults as frankly as her virtues, and tried to
deserve their esteem by copying the excellencies she
admired in them.

“She is made of the right stuff, and we must keep
her among us; for she must not be lost or wasted by
being left to drift about the world with no ties to make
her safe and happy. She is doing so well here, let her
stay till the restless spirit begins to stir again; then
she shall come to me and learn contentment by seeing
greater troubles than her own.”

Mr. Power said this one day as he rose to go, after
sitting an hour with Mrs. Sterling, and hearing from
her a good report of his new protégée. The young
people were out at work, and had not been called in to
see him, for the interview had been a confidential one.
But as he stood at the gate he saw Christie in the
strawberry bed, and went toward her, glad to see how
well and happy she looked.

Her hat was hanging on her shoulders, and the sun
giving her cheeks a healthy color; she was humming
to herself like a bee as her fingers flew, and once she
paused, shaded her eyes with her hand, and took a long
look at a figure down in the meadow; then she worked on
silent and smiling, — a pleasant creature to see, though
her hair was ruffled by the wind; her gingham gown
pinned up; and her fingers deeply stained with the
blood of many berries.

“I wonder if that means any thing?” thought Mr.
Power, with a keen glance from the distant man to the
busy woman close at hand. “It might be a helpful,
happy thing for both, if poor David only could forget.”

He had time for no more castle-building, for a startled

[ILLUSTRATION]

Mr. Power and Christie in the Strawberry Bed.

[Description: 445EAF. Page 250. In-line image of Mr. Power, seated on a chair, talks with Christie who is sitting and picking strawberries.]

robin flew away with a shrill chirp, and Christie looked
up.

“Oh, I 'm so glad!” she said, rising quickly. “I was
picking a special box for you, and now you can have a
feast beside, just as you like it, fresh from the vines.
Sit here, please, and I 'll hull faster than you can eat.”

“This is luxury!” and Mr. Power sat down on the
three-legged stool offered him, with a rhubarb leaf on
his knee which Christie kept supplying with delicious
mouthfuls.

“Well, and how goes it? Are we still happy and contented
here?” he asked.

“I feel as if I had been born again; as if this was
a new heaven and a new earth, and every thing was
as it should be,” answered Christie, with a look of perfect
satisfaction in her face.

“That 's a pleasant hearing. Mrs. Sterling has been
praising you, but I wanted to be sure you were as satisfied
as she. And how does David wear? well, I hope.”

“Oh, yes, he is very good to me, and is teaching me
to be a gardener, so that I needn't kill myself with sewing
any more. Much of this is fine work for women,
and so healthy. Don't I look a different creature from
the ghost that came here three or four months ago?”
and she turned her face for inspection like a child.

“Yes, David is a good gardener. I often send my
sort of plants here, and he always makes them grow
and blossom sooner or later,” answered Mr. Power, regarding
her like a beneficent genie on a three-legged
stool.

“You are the fresh air, and Mrs. Sterling is the quiet
sunshine that does the work, I fancy. David only digs
about the roots.”

“Thank you for my share of the compliment; but
why say `only digs'? That is a most important part
of the work: I 'm afraid you don't appreciate David.”

“Oh, yes, I do; but he rather aggravates me sometimes,”
said Christie, laughing, as she put a particularly
big berry in the green plate to atone for her frankness.

“How?” asked Mr. Power, interested in these little
revelations.

“Well, he won't be ambitious. I try to stir him up,

for he has talents; I 've found that out: but he won't
seem to care for any thing but watching over his mother,
reading his old books, and making flowers bloom double
when they ought to be single.”

“There are worse ambitions than those, Christie. I
know many a man who would be far better employed
in cherishing a sweet old woman, studying Plato, and
doubling the beauty of a flower, than in selling principles
for money, building up a cheap reputation that dies
with him, or chasing pleasures that turn to ashes in his
mouth.”

“Yes, sir; but isn't it natural for a young man to
have some personal aim or aspiration to live for? If
David was a weak or dull man I could understand it;
but I seem to feel a power, a possibility for something
higher and better than any thing I see, and this frets
me. He is so good, I want him to be great also in
some way.”

“A wise man says, `The essence of greatness is the
perception that virtue is enough.' I think David one
of the most ambitious men I ever knew, because at
thirty he has discovered this truth, and taken it to
heart. Many men can be what the world calls great:
very few men are what God calls good. This is the
harder task to choose, yet the only success that satisfies,
the only honor that outlives death. These faithful
lives, whether seen of men or hidden in corners, are
the salvation of the world, and few of us fail to acknowledge
it in the hours when we are brought close
to the heart of things, and see a little as God sees.”

Christie did not speak for a moment: Mr. Power's
voice had been so grave, and his words so earnest that

she could not answer lightly, but sat turning over the
new thoughts in her mind. Presently she said, in a
penitent but not quite satisfied tone:

“Of course you are right, sir. I 'll try not to care for
the outward and visible signs of these hidden virtues;
but I 'm afraid I still shall have a hankering for the
worldly honors that are so valued by most people.”

“`Success and glory are the children of hard work
and God's favor,' according to æschylus, and you will
find he was right. David got a heavy blow some years
ago as I told you, I think; and he took it hard, but it
did not spoil him: it made a man of him; and, if I am
not much mistaken, he will yet do something to be
proud of, though the world may never hear of it.”

“I hope so!” and Christie's face brightened at the
thought.

“Nevertheless you look as if you doubted it, O you
of little faith. Every one has two sides to his nature:
David has shown you the least interesting one, and
you judge accordingly. I think he will show you the
other side some day, — for you are one of the women
who win confidence without trying, — and then you
will know the real David. Don't expect too much, or
quarrel with the imperfections that make him human;
but take him for what he is worth, and help him if you
can to make his life a brave and good one.”

“I will, sir,” answered Christie so meekly that Mr.
Power laughed; for this confessional in the strawberry
bed amused him very much.

“You are a hero-worshipper, my dear; and if people
don't come up to the mark you are so disappointed that
you fail to see the fine reality which remains when the

pretty romance ends. Saints walk about the world to-day
as much as ever, but instead of haircloth and halos
they now wear” —

“Broadcloth and wide-brimmed hats,” added Christie,
looking up as if she had already found a better
St. Thomas than any the church ever canonized.

He thanked her with a smile, and went on with a
glance toward the meadow.

“And knights go crusading as gallantly as ever
against the giants and the dragons, though you don't
discover it, because, instead of banner, lance, and shield
they carry” —

“Bushel-baskets, spades, and sweet-flag for their
mothers,” put in Christie again, as David came up the
path with the loam he had been digging.

Both began to laugh, and he joined in the merriment
without knowing why, as he put down his load, took off
his hat, and shook hands with his honored guest.

“What 's the joke?” he asked, refreshing himself
with the handful of berries Christie offered him.

“Don't tell,” she whispered, looking dismayed at the
idea of letting him know what she had said of him.

But Mr. Power answered tranquilly:

“We were talking about coins, and Christie was expressing
her opinion of one I showed her. The face
and date she understands; but the motto puzzles her,
and she has not seen the reverse side yet, so does
not know its value. She will some day; and then she
will agree with me, I think, that it is sterling gold.”

The emphasis on the last words enlightened David:
his sunburnt cheek reddened, but he only shook his
head, saying: “She will find a brass farthing I 'm afraid,

sir,” and began to crumble a handful of loam about the
roots of a carnation that seemed to have sprung up by
chance at the foot of the apple-tree.

“How did that get there?” asked Christie, with sudden
interest in the flower.

“It dropped when I was setting out the others, took
root, and looked so pretty and comfortable that I left
it. These waifs sometimes do better than the most
carefully tended ones: I only dig round them a bit and
leave them to sun and air.”

Mr. Power looked at Christie with so much meaning
in his face that it was her turn to color now. But with
feminine perversity she would not won herself mistaken,
and answered with eyes as full of meaning as his own:

“I like the single ones best: double-carnations are
so untidy, all bursting out of the calyx as if the petals
had quarrelled and could not live together.”

“The single ones are seldom perfect, and look poor
and incomplete with little scent or beauty,” said unconscious
David propping up the thin-leaved flower,
that looked like a pale solitary maiden, beside the great
crimson and white carnations near by, filling the air
with spicy odor.

“I suspect you will change your mind by and by,
Christie, as your taste improves, and you will learn to
think the double ones the handsomest,” added Mr.
Power, wondering in his benevolent heart if he would
ever be the gardener to mix the colors of the two human
plants before him.

“I must go,” and David shouldered his basket as if
he felt he might be in the way.

“So must I, or they will be waiting for me at the

hospital. Give me a handful of flowers, David: they
often do the poor souls more good than my prayers or
preaching.”

Then they went away, and left Christie sitting in the
strawberry bed, thinking that David looked less than
ever like a hero with his blue shirt, rough straw hat,
and big boots; also wondering if he would ever show
her his best side, and if she would like it when she
saw it.