University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
MIDSUMMER.

“NOW it is all over. I shall never have another
chance like that, and must make up my mind to
be a lonely and laborious spinster all my life. Youth
is going fast, and I have little in myself to attract or
win, though David did call me `good and lovely.'
Ah, well, I 'll try to deserve his praise, and not let disappointment
sour or sadden me. Better to hope and
wait all my life than marry without love.”

Christie often said this to herself during the hard
days that followed Mr. Fletcher's disappearance; a
disappearance, by the way, which caused Mr. Power
much satisfaction, though he only betrayed it by added
kindness to Christie, and in his manner an increased
respect very comforting to her.

But she missed her lover, for nothing now broke up
the monotony of a useful life. She had enjoyed that
little episode; for it had lent romance to every thing
while it lasted, even the charity basket with which she
went her rounds; for Mr. Fletcher often met her by accident
apparently, and carried it as if to prove the sincerity
of his devotion. No bouquets came now; no
graceful little notes with books or invitations to some
coveted pleasure; no dangerously delightful evenings
in the recess, where, for a time, she felt and used the

power which to a woman is so full of subtle satisfaction;
no bitter-sweet hopes; no exciting dreams of what
might be with the utterance of a word; no soft uncertainty
to give a charm to every hour that passed.
Nothing but daily duties, a little leisure that hung
heavy on her hands with no hope to stimulate, no
lover to lighten it, and a sore, sad heart that would
clamor for its right; and even when pride silenced it
ached on with the dull pain which only time and patience
have the power to heal.

But as those weeks went slowly by, she began to
discover some of the miracles true love can work. She
thought she had laid it in its grave; but an angel
rolled the stone away, and the lost passion rose stronger,
purer, and more beautiful than when she buried it with
bitter tears. A spirit now, fed by no hope, warmed by
no tenderness, clothed in no fond delusion; the vital
soul of love which outlives the fairest, noblest form
humanity can give it, and sits among the ruins singing
the immortal hymn of consolation the Great Musician
taught.

Christie felt this strange comfort resting like a baby
in her lonely bosom, cherished and blessed it; wondering
while she rejoiced, and soon perceiving with the
swift instinct of a woman, that this was a lesson, hard
to learn, but infinitely precious, helpful, and sustaining
when once gained. She was not happy, only patient;
not hopeful, but trusting; and when life looked dark
and barren without, she went away into that inner
world of deep feeling, high thought, and earnest aspiration;
which is a never-failing refuge to those whose
experience has built within them

Some women live fast; and Christie fought her battle,
won her victory, and found peace declared during that
winter: for her loyalty to love brought its own reward
in time, giving her the tranquil steadfastness which
comes to those who submit and ask nothing but fortitude.

She had seen little of David, except at church, and
began to regard him almost as one might a statue on
a tomb, the marble effigy of the beloved dead below;
for the sweet old friendship was only a pale shadow
now. He always found her out, gave her the posy she
best liked, said cheerfully, “How goes it, Christie?”
and she always answered, “Good-morning, David. I
am well and busy, thank you.” Then they sat together
listening to Mr. Power, sung from the same book,
walked a little way together, and parted for another
week with a hand-shake for good-by.

Christie often wondered what prayers David prayed
when he sat so still with his face hidden by his hand,
and looked up with such a clear and steady look when
he had done. She tried to do the same; but her
thoughts would wander to the motionless gray figure
beside her, and she felt as if peace and strength unconsciously
flowed from it to sustain and comfort her.
Some of her happiest moments were those she spent
sitting there, pale and silent, with absent eyes, and lips
that trembled now and then, hidden by the flowers held
before them, kissed covertly, and kept like relics long
after they were dead.

One bitter drop always marred the pleasure of that

hour; for when she had asked for Mrs. Sterling, and
sent her love, she forced herself to say kindly:

“And Kitty, is she doing well?”

“Capitally; come and see how she has improved;
we are quite proud of her.”

“I will if I can find time. It 's a hard winter and
we have so much to do,” she would answer smiling,
and then go home to struggle back into the patient
mood she tried to make habitual.

But she seldom made time to go and see Kitty's
improvement; and, when she did run out for an hour
she failed to discover any thing, except that the girl was
prettier and more coquettish than ever, and assumed
airs of superiority that tried Christie very much.

“I am ready for any thing,” she always said with a
resolute air after one of these visits; but, when the
time seemed to have come she was not so ready as she
fancied.

Passing out of a store one day, she saw Kitty all in
her best, buying white gloves with a most important
air. “That looks suspicious,” she thought, and could
not resist speaking.

“All well at home?” she asked.

“Grandma and I have been alone for nearly a week;
David went off on business; but he 's back now and —
oh, my goodness! I forgot: I 'm not to tell a soul
yet;” and Kitty pursed up her lips, looking quite oppressed
with some great secret.

“Bless me, how mysterious! Well, I won't ask any
dangerous questions, only tell me if the dear old lady
is well,” said Christie, desperately curious, but too
proud to show it.

“She 's well, but dreadfully upset by what 's happened;
well she may be.” And Kitty shook her head
with a look of mingled mystery and malicious merriment.

“Mr. Sterling is all right I hope?” Christie never
called him David to Kitty; so that impertinent little
person took especial pains to speak familiarly, sometimes
even fondly of him to Christie.

“Dear fellow! he 's so happy he don't know what to
do with himself. I just wish you could see him go
round smiling, and singing, and looking as if he 'd like
to dance.”

“That looks as if he was going to get a chance to do
it,” said Christie, with a glance at the gloves, as Kitty
turned from the counter.

“So he is!” laughed Kitty, patting the little parcel
with a joyful face.

“I do believe you are going to be married:” exclaimed
Christie, half distracted with curiosity.

“I am, but not to Miles. Now don't you say another
word, for I 'm dying to tell, and I promised I wouldn't.
David wants to do it himself. By-by.” And Kitty
hurried away, leaving Christie as pale as if she had seen
a ghost at noonday.

She had; for the thought of David's marrying Kitty
had haunted her all those months, and now she was
quite sure the blow had come.

“If she was only a nobler woman I could bear it
better; but I am sure he will regret it when the first
illusion is past. I fancy she reminds him of his lost
Letty, and so he thinks he loves her. I pray he may
be happy, and I hope it will be over soon,” thought

Christie, with a groan, as she trudged away to carry
comfort to those whose woes could be relieved by tea
and sugar, flannel petticoats, and orders for a ton of
coal.

It was over soon, but not as Christie had expected.

That evening Mr. Power was called away, and she
sat alone, bravely trying to forget suspense and grief in
copying the record of her last month's labor. But she
made sad work of it; for her mind was full of David
and his wife, so happy in the little home which had
grown doubly dear to her since she left it. No wonder
then that she put down “two dozen children” to Mrs.
Flanagan, and “four knit hoods” with the measles;
or that a great blot fell upon “twenty yards red flannel,”
as the pen dropped from the hands she clasped
together; saying with all the fervor of true self-abnegation:
“I hope he will be happy; oh, I hope he will be
happy!”

If ever woman deserved reward for patient endeavor,
hard-won submission, and unselfish love, Christie did
then. And she received it in full measure; for the
dear Lord requites some faithful hearts, blesses some
lives that seem set apart for silent pain and solitary
labor.

Snow was falling fast, and a bitter wind moaned
without; the house was very still, and nothing stirred
in the room but the flames dancing on the hearth, and
the thin hand moving to and fro among the records of
a useful life.

Suddenly the bell rang loudly and repeatedly, as if
the new-comer was impatient of delay. Christie paused
to listen. It was not Mr. Power's ring, not his voice in

the hall below, not his step that came leaping up the
stairs, nor his hand that threw wide the door. She
knew them all, and her heart stood still an instant;
then she gathered up her strength, said low to herself,
“Now it is coming,” and was ready for the truth, with
a colorless face; eyes unnaturally bright and fixed; and
one hand on her breast, as if to hold in check the rebellious
heart that would throb so fast.

It was David who came in with such impetuosity.
Snow-flakes shone in his hair; the glow of the keen
wind was on his cheek, a smile on his lips, and in his
eyes an expression she had never seen before. Happiness,
touched with the shadow of some past pain;
doubt and desire; gratitude and love, — all seemed to
meet and mingle in it; while, about the whole man,
was the free and ardent air of one relieved from some
heavy burden, released from some long captivity.

“O David, what is it?” cried Christie, as he stood
looking at her with this strange look.

“News, Christie! such happy news I can't find
words to tell them,” he answered, coming nearer, but
too absorbed in his own emotion to heed hers.

She drew a long breath and pressed her hand a little
heavier on her breast, as she said, with the ghost of a
smile, more pathetic than the saddest tears:

“I guess it, David.”

“How?” he demanded, as if defrauded of a joy he
had set his heart upon.

“I met Kitty, — she told me nothing, — but her face
betrayed what I have long suspected.”

David laughed, such a glad yet scornful laugh, and,
snatching a little miniature from his pocket, offered

it, saying, with the new impetuosity that changed him
so:

“That is the daughter I have found for my mother.
You know her, — you love her; and you will not be
ashamed to welcome her, I think.”

Christie took it; saw a faded, time-worn likeness of
a young girl's happy face; a face strangely familiar,
yet, for a moment, she groped to find the name
belonging to it. Then memory helped her; and she
said, half incredulously, half joyfully:

“Is it my Rachel?”

“It is my Letty!” cried David, with an accent of
such mingled love and sorrow, remorse and joy, that
Christie seemed to hear in it the death-knell of her
faith in him. The picture fell from the hands she put
up, as if to ward off some heavy blow, and her voice
was sharp with reproachful anguish, as she cried:

“O David, David, any thing but that!”

An instant he seemed bewildered, then the meaning
of the grief in her face flashed on him, and his own
grew white with indignant repudiation of the thought
that daunted her; but he only said with the stern
brevity of truth:

“Letty is my sister.”

“Forgive me, — how could I know? Oh, thank
God! thank God!” and, dropping down upon a chair,
Christie broke into a passion of the happiest tears she
ever shed.

David stood beside her silent, till the first irrepressible
paroxysm was over; then, while she sat weeping
softly, quite bowed down by emotion, he said, sadly
now, not sternly:

“You could not know, because we hid the truth so
carefully. I have no right to resent that belief of
yours, for I did wrong my poor Letty, almost as much
as that lover of hers, who, being dead, I do not curse.
Let me tell you every thing, Christie, before I ask your
respect and confidence again. I never deserved them,
but I tried to; for they were very precious to me.”

He paused a moment, then went on rapidly, as if
anxious to accomplish a hard task; and Christie forgot
to weep while listening breathlessly.

“Letty was the pride of my heart; and I loved her
very dearly, for she was all I had. Such a pretty child;
such a gay, sweet girl; how could I help it, when she
was so fond of me? We were poor then, — poorer
than now, — and she grew restless; tired of hard work;
longed for a little pleasure, and could not bear to waste
her youth and beauty in that dull town. I did not
blame my little girl; but I could not help her, for I
was tugging away to fill father's place, he being broken
down and helpless. She wanted to go away and support
herself. You know the feeling; and I need not
tell you how the proud, high-hearted creature hated
dependence, even on a brother who would have worked
his soul out for her. She would go, and we had faith
in her. For a time she did bravely; but life was too
hard for her; pleasure too alluring, and, when temptation
came in the guise of love, she could not resist.
One dreadful day, news came that she was gone, never
to come back, my innocent little Letty, any more.”

His voice failed there, and he walked fast through
the room, as if the memory of that bitter day was still
unbearable. Christie could not speak for very pity;

and he soon continued, pacing restlessly before her, as
he had often done when she sat by, wondering what
unquiet spirit drove him to and fro:

“That was the beginning of my trouble; but not
the worst of it: God forgive me, not the worst!
Father was very feeble, and the shock killed him;
mother's heart was nearly broken, and all the happiness
was taken out of life for me. But I could bear it,
heavy as the blow was, for I had no part in that sin
and sorrow. A year later, there came a letter from
Letty, — a penitent, imploring, little letter, asking to
be forgiven and taken home, for her lover was dead,
and she alone in a foreign land. How would you
answer such a letter, Christie?”

“As you did; saying: `Come home and let us comfort
you.”'

“I said: `You have killed your father; broken your
mother's heart; ruined your brother's hopes, and disgraced
your family. You no longer have a home with
us; and we never want to see your face again.”'

“O David, that was cruel!”

“I said you did not know me; now you see how
deceived you have been. A stern, resentful devil possessed
me then, and I obeyed it. I was very proud;
full of ambitious plans and jealous love for the few I
took into my heart. Letty had brought a stain upon
our honest name that time could never wash away;
had quenched my hopes in despair and shame; had
made home desolate, and destroyed my faith in every
thing; for whom could I trust, when she, the nearest
and dearest creature in the world, deceived and descrted
me. I could not forgive; wrath burned hot

within me, and the desire for retribution would not be
appeased till those cruel words were said. The retribution
and remorse came swift and sure; but they
came most heavily to me.”

Still standing where he had paused abruptly as he
asked his question, David wrung his strong hands together
with a gesture of passionate regret, while his
face grew sharp with the remembered suffering of the
years he had given to the atonement of that wrong.

Christie put her own hand on those clenched ones,
and whispered softly:

“Don't tell me any more now: I can wait.”

“I must, and you must listen! I 've longed to tell
you, but I was afraid; now, you shall know every
thing, and then decide if you can forgive me for Letty's
sake,” he said, so resolutely that she listened with a
face full of mute compassion.

“That little letter came to me; I never told my
mother, but answered it, and kept silent till news
arrived that the ship in which Letty had taken passage
was lost. Remorse had been tugging at my heart;
and, when I knew that she was dead, I forgave her
with a vain forgiveness, and mourned for my darling,
as if she had never left me. I told my mother then,
and she did not utter one reproach; but age seemed to
fall upon her all at once, and the pathetic quietude you
see.

“Then, but for her, I should have been desperate;
for day and night Letty's face haunted me; Letty's
voice cried: `Take me home!' and every word of
that imploring letter burned before my eyes as if written
in fire. Do you wonder now that I hid myself;

that I had no heart to try for any honorable place in
the world, and only struggled to forget, only hoped to
expiate my sin?”

With his head bowed down upon his breast, David
stood silent, asking himself if he had even now done
enough to win the reward he coveted. Christie's voice
seemed to answer him; for she said, with heartfelt gratitude
and respect:

“Surely you have atoned for that harshness to one
woman by years of devotion to many. Was it this
that made you `a brother of girls,' as Mr. Power once
called you? And, when I asked what he meant, he said
the Arabs call a man that who has `a clean heart to
love all women as his sisters, and strength and courage
to fight for their protection!”'

She hoped to lighten his trouble a little, and spoke
with a smile that was like cordial to poor David.

“Yes,” he said, lifting his head again. “I tried to
be that, and, for Letty's sake, had pity on the most forlorn,
patience with the most abandoned; always remembering
that she might have been what they were, if
death had not been more merciful than I.”

“But she was not dead: she was alive and working
as bravely as you. Ah, how little I thought, when I
loved Rachel, and she loved me, that we should ever
meet so happily as we soon shall. Tell me how you
found her? Does she know I am the woman she once
saved? Tell me all about her; and tell it fast,” prayed
Christie, getting excited, as she more fully grasped the
happy fact that Rachel and Letty were one.

David came nearer, and his face kindled as he spoke.

“The ship sailed without her; she came later; and,

finding that her name was among the lost, she did not
deny it, for she was dead to us, and decided to remain
so till she had earned the right to be forgiven. You
know how she lived and worked, stood firm with no
one to befriend her till you came, and, by years of
patient well-doing, washed away her single sin. If
any one dares think I am ashamed to own her now, let
him know what cause I have to be proud of her; let
him come and see how tenderly I love her; how
devoutly I thank God for permitting me to find and
bring my little Letty home.”

Only the snow-flakes drifting against the windowpane,
and the wailing of the wind, was heard for a
moment; then David added, with brightening eyes and
a glad voice:

“I went into a hospital while away, to look after one
of my poor girls who had been doing well till illness
brought her there. As I was passing out I saw a sleeping
face, and stopped involuntarily: it was so like Letty's.
I never doubted she was dead; the name over the bed
was not hers; the face was sadly altered from the happy,
rosy one I knew, but it held me fast; and as I paused
the eyes opened, — Letty's own soft eyes, — they saw
me, and, as if I was the figure of a dream, she smiled,
put up her arms and said, just as she used to say, a
child, when I woke her in her little bed — `Why,
Davy!' — I can't tell any more, — only that when I
brought her home and put her in mother's arms, I felt
as if I was forgiven at last.”

He broke down there, and went and stood behind the
window curtains, letting no one see the grateful tears
that washed away the bitterness of those long years.

Christie had taken up the miniature and was looking
at it, while her heart sang for joy that the lost was
found, when David came back to her, wearing the same
look she had seen the night she listened among the
cloaks. Moved and happy, with eager eyes and ardent
manner, yet behind it all a pale expectancy as if some
great crisis was at hand:

“Christie, I never can forget that when all others,
even I, cast Letty off, you comforted and saved her.
What can I do to thank you for it?”

“Be my friend, and let me be hers again,” she answered,
too deeply moved to think of any private hope
or pain.

“Then the past, now that you know it all, does not
change your heart to us?”

“It only makes you dearer.”

“And if I asked you to come back to the home that
has been desolate since you went, would you come?”

“Gladly, David.”

“And if I dared to say I loved you?”

She only looked at him with a quick rising light and
warmth over her whole face; he stretched both arms
to her, and going to him, Christie gave her answer
silently.

Lovers usually ascend straight into the seventh
heaven for a time: unfortunately they cannot stay
long; the air is too rarefied, the light too brilliant, the
fare too ethereal, and they are forced to come down to
mundane things, as larks drop from heaven's gate into
their grassy nests. David was summoned from that
blissful region, after a brief enjoyment of its divine
delights, by Christie, who looked up from her new refuge
with the abrupt question:

“What becomes of Kitty?”

He regarded her with a dazed expression for an
instant, for she had been speaking the delightful language
of lips and eyes that lovers use, and the old
tongue sounded harsh to him.

“She is safe with her father, and is to marry the
`other one' next week.”

“Heaven be praised!” ejaculated Christie, so fervently
that David looked suddenly enlightened and
much amused, as he said quickly:

“What becomes of Fletcher?”

“He 's safely out of the way, and I sincerely hope
he will marry some `other one' as soon as possible.”

“Christie, you were jealous of that girl.”

“David, you were jealous of that man.”

Then they both burst out laughing like two children,
for heavy burdens had been lifted off their hearts and
they were bubbling over with happiness.

“But truly, David, weren't you a little jealous of P.
F.?” persisted Christie, feeling an intense desire to ask
all manner of harassing questions, with the agreeable
certainty that they would be fully answered.

“Desperately jealous. You were so kind, so gay, so
altogether charming when with him, that I could not
stand by and see it, so I kept away. Why were you
never so to me?”

“Because you never showed that you cared for me,
and he did. But it was wrong in me to do it, and I
repent of it heartily; for it hurt him more than I thought
it would when the experiment failed. I truly tried to
love him, but I couldn't.”

“Yet he had so much to offer, and could give you all

you most enjoy. It is very singular that you failed to
care for him, and preferred a poor old fellow like me,”
said David, beaming at her like a beatified man.

“I do love luxury and pleasure, but I love independence
more. I 'm happier poking in the dirt with you
than I should be driving in a fine carriage with `that
piece of elegance' as Mr. Power called him; prouder
of being your wife than his; and none of the costly
things he offered me were half so precious in my sight
as your little nosegays, now mouldering away in my
treasure-box upstairs. Why, Davy, I 've longed more
intensely for the right to push up the curly lock that is
always tumbling into your eyes, than for Philip's whole
fortune. May I do it now?”

“You may,” and Christie did it with a tender satisfaction
that made David love her the more, though he
laughed like a boy at the womanly whim.

“And so you thought I cared for Kitty?” he said
presently, taking his turn at the new game.

“How could I help it when she was so young and
pretty and fond of you?”

“Was she?” innocently.

“Didn't you see it? How blind men are!”

“Not always.”

“David, did you see that I cared for you?” asked
Christie, turning crimson under the significant glance he
gave her.

“I wish I had; I confess I once or twice fancied that
I caught glimpses of bliss round the corner, as it were;
but, before I could decide, the glimpses vanished, and I
was very sure I was a conceited coxcomb to think it
for a moment. It was very hard, and yet I was glad.”

“Glad!”

“Yes, because I had made a sort of vow that I 'd
never love or marry as a punishment for my cruelty to
Letty.”

“That was wrong, David.”

“I see it now; but it was not hard to keep that foolish
vow till you came; and you see I 've broken it
without a shadow of regret to-night.”

“You might have done it months ago and saved me
so much woe if you had not been a dear, modest, morbidly
conscientious bat,” sighed Christie, pleased and
proud to learn her power, yet sorry for the long
delay.

“Thank you, love. You see I didn't find out why
I liked my friend so well till I lost her. I had just
begun to feel that you were very dear, — for after the
birthday you were like an angel in the house, Christie,
— when you changed all at once, and I thought you suspected
me, and didn't like it. Your running away when
Kitty came confirmed my fear; then in came that —
would you mind if I said — confounded Fletcher?”

“Not in the least.”

“Well, as he didn't win, I won't be hard on him;
but I gave up then and had a tough time of it; especially
that first night when this splendid lover appeared
and received such a kind welcome.”

Christie saw the strong hand that lay on David's
knee clenched slowly, as he knit his brows with a grim
look, plainly showing that he was not what she was
inclined to think him, a perfect saint.

“Oh, my heart! and there I was loving you so dearly
all the time, and you wouldn't see or speak or understand,

but went away, left me to torment all three of
us,” cried Christie with a tragic gesture.

“My dearest girl, did you ever know a man in love
do, say, or think the right thing at the right time? I
never did,” said David, so penitently that she forgave
him on the spot.

“Never mind, dear. It has taught us the worth of
love, and perhaps we are the better for the seeming
waste of precious time. Now I've not only got you
but Letty also, and your mother is mine in very truth.
Ah, how rich I am!”

“But I thought it was all over with me when I
found Letty, because, seeing no more of Fletcher, I
had begun to hope again, and when she came back
to me I knew my home must be hers, yet feared you
would refuse to share it if you knew all. You are
very proud, and the purest-hearted woman I ever
knew.”

“And if I had refused, you would have let me go and
held fast to Letty?”

“Yes, for I owe her every thing.”

“You should have known me better, David. But I
don't refuse, and there is no need to choose between
us.”

“No, thank heaven, and you, my Christie! Imagine
what I felt when Letty told me all you had been to
her. If any thing could make me love you more than I
now do, it would be that! No, don't hide your face;
I like to see it blush and smile and turn to me confidingly,
as it has not done all these long months.”

“Did Letty tell you what she had done for me?”
asked Christie, looking more like a rose than ever Kitty
did.

“She told me every thing, and wished me to tell you
all her story, even the saddest part of it. I 'd better
do it now before you meet again.”

He paused as if the tale was hard to tell; but Christie
put her hand on his lips saying softly:

“Never tell it; let her past be as sacred as if she
were dead. She was my friend when I had no other:
she is my dear sister now, and nothing can ever change
the love between us.”

If she had thought David's face beautiful with gratitude
when he told the happier portions of that history,
she found it doubly so when she spared him the recital
of its darkest chapter, and bade him “leave the rest to
silence.”

“Now you will come home? Mother wants you,
Letty longs for you, and I have got and mean to keep
you all my life, God willing!”

“I 'd better die to-night and make a blessed end, for
so much happiness is hardly possible in a world of
woe,” answered Christie to that fervent invitation.

“We shall be married very soon, take a wedding
trip to any part of the world you like, and our honeymoon
will last for ever, Mrs. Sterling, Jr.,” said David,
soaring away into the future with sublime disregard of
obstacles.

Before Christie could get her breath after that somewhat
startling announcement, Mr. Power appeared,
took in the situation at a glance, gave them a smile that
was a benediction, and said heartily as he offered a hand
to each:

“Now I'm satisfied; I've watched and waited patiently,
and after many tribulations you have found

each other in good time;” then with a meaning look
at Christie he added slyly: “But David is `no hero'
you know.”

She remembered the chat in the strawberry bed,
laughed, and colored brightly, as she answered with her
hand trustfully in David's, her eyes full of loving pride
and reverence lifted to his face:

“I've seen both sides of the medal now, and found it
`sterling gold.' Hero or not I 'm content; for, though
he `loves his mother much,' there is room in his heart
for me too; his `old books' have given him something
better than learning, and he has convinced me that
`double flowers' are loveliest and best.”