University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
LITTLE HEART'S-EASE.

WHEN it was all over, the long journey home,
the quiet funeral, the first sad excitement, then
came the bitter moment when life says to the bereaved:
“Take up your burden and go on alone.” Christie 's
had been the still, tearless grief hardest to bear, most
impossible to comfort; and, while Mrs. Sterling bore
her loss with the sweet patience of a pious heart, and
Letty mourned her brother with the tender sorrow that
finds relief in natural ways, the widow sat among them
as tranquil, colorless, and mute, as if her soul had followed
David, leaving the shadow of her former self
behind.

“He will not come to me, but I shall go to him,”
seemed to be the thought that sustained her, and those
who loved her said despairingly to one another: “Her
heart is broken: she will not linger long.”

But one woman wise in her own motherliness always
answered hopefully: “Don't you be troubled; Nater
knows what 's good for us, and works in her own way.
Hearts like this don't break, and sorrer only makes 'em
stronger. You mark my words: the blessed baby that 's
a comin' in the summer will work a merrycle, and
you 'll see this poor dear a happy woman yet.”

Few believed in the prophecy; but Mrs. Wilkins
stoutly repeated it and watched over Christie like a
mother; often trudging up the lane in spite of wind or
weather to bring some dainty mess, some remarkable
puzzle in red or yellow calico to be used as a pattern
for the little garments the three women sewed with
such tender interest, consecrated with such tender
tears; or news of the war fresh from Lisha who “was
goin' to see it through ef he come home without a leg
to stand on.” A cheery, hopeful, wholesome influence
she brought with her, and all the house seemed to
brighten as she sat there freeing her mind upon every
subject that came up, from the delicate little shirts Mrs.
Sterling knit in spite of failing eyesight, to the fall of
Richmond, which, the prophetic spirit being strong
within her, Mrs. Wilkins foretold with sibylline precision.

She alone could win a faint smile from Christie with
some odd saying, some shrewd opinion, and she alone
brought tears to the melancholy eyes that sorely needed
such healing dew; for she carried little Adelaide, and
without a word put her into Christie's arms, there to
cling and smile and babble till she had soothed the
bitter pain and hunger of a suffering heart.

She and Mr. Power held Christie up through that
hard time, ministering to soul and body with their
hope and faith till life grew possible again, and from
the dust of a great affliction rose the sustaining power
she had sought so long.

As spring came on, and victory after victory proclaimed
that the war was drawing to an end, Christie's
sad resignation was broken by gusts of grief so stormy,

so inconsolable, that those about her trembled for her
life. It was so hard to see the regiments come home
proudly bearing the torn battle-flags, weary, wounded,
but victorious, to be rapturously welcomed, thanked,
and honored by the grateful country they had served
so well; to see all this and think of David in his grave
unknown, unrewarded, and forgotten by all but a faithful
few.

“I used to dream of a time like this, to hope and
plan for it, and cheer myself with the assurance that,
after all our hard work, our long separation, and the
dangers we had faced, David would get some honor,
receive some reward, at least be kept for me to love
and serve and live with for a little while. But these
men who have merely saved a banner, led a charge, or
lost an arm, get all the glory, while he gave his life so
nobly; yet few know it, no one thanked him, and I am
left desolate when so many useless ones might have
been taken in his place. Oh, it is not just! I cannot
forgive God for robbing him of all his honors, and me
of all my happiness.”

So lamented Christie with the rebellious protest of a
strong nature learning submission through the stern
discipline of grief. In vain Mr. Power told her that
David had received a better reward than any human
hand could give him, in the gratitude of many women,
the respect of many men. That to do bravely the
daily duties of an upright life was more heroic in God's
sight, than to achieve in an enthusiastic moment a
single deed that won the world's applause; and that
the seeming incompleteness of his life was beautifully
rounded by the act that caused his death, although no

eulogy recorded it, no song embalmed it, and few knew
it but those he saved, those he loved, and the Great
Commander who promoted him to the higher rank he
had won.

Christie could not be content with this invisible,
intangible recompense for her hero: she wanted to see,
to know beyond a doubt, that justice had been done;
and beat herself against the barrier that baffles bereaved
humanity till impatient despair was wearied out, and
passionate heart gave up the struggle.

Then, when no help seemed possible, she found it
where she least expected it, in herself. Searching for
religion, she had found love: now seeking to follow love
she found religion. The desire for it had never left
her, and, while serving others, she was earning this
reward; for when her life seemed to lie in ashes, from
their midst, this slender spire of flame, purifying while
it burned, rose trembling toward heaven; showing her
how great sacrifices turn to greater compensations;
giving her light, warmth, and consolation, and teaching
her the lesson all must learn.

God was very patient with her, sending much help,
and letting her climb up to Him by all the tender ways
in which aspiring souls can lead unhappy hearts.

David's room had been her refuge when those dark
hours came, and sitting there one day trying to understand
the great mystery that parted her from David,
she seemed to receive an answer to her many prayers
for some sign that death had not estranged them. The
house was very still, the window open, and a soft south
wind was wandering through the room with hints of
May-flowers on its wings. Suddenly a breath of music

startled her, so airy, sweet, and short-lived that no
human voice or hand could have produced it. Again
and again it came, a fitful and melodious sigh, that
to one made superstitious by much sorrow, seemed like
a spirit's voice delivering some message from another
world.

Christie looked and listened with hushed breath and
expectant heart, believing that some special answer was
to be given her. But in a moment she saw it was no
supernatural sound, only the south wind whispering in
David's flute that hung beside the window. Disappointment
came first, then warm over her sore heart
flowed the tender recollection that she used to call the
old flute “David's voice,” for into it he poured the joy
and sorrow, unrest and pain, he told no living soul.
How often it had been her lullaby, before she learned
to read its language; how gaily it had piped for others;
how plaintively it had sung for him, alone and in the
night; and now how full of pathetic music was that
hymn of consolation fitfully whispered by the wind's
soft breath.

Ah, yes! this was a better answer than any supernatural
voice could have given her; a more helpful sign
than any phantom face or hand; a surer confirmation of
her hope than subtle argument or sacred promise: for
it brought back the memory of the living, loving man
so vividly, so tenderly, that Christie felt as if the barrier
was down, and welcomed a new sense of David's nearness
with the softest tears that had flowed since she
closed the serene eyes whose last look had been for
her.

After that hour she spent the long spring days lying

on the old couch in his room, reading his books, thinking
of his love and life, and listening to “David's voice.”
She always heard it now, whether the wind touched
the flute with airy fingers or it hung mute; and it sung
to her songs of patience, hope, and cheer, till a mysterious
peace came to her, and she discovered in herself
the strength she had asked, yet never thought to find.
Under the snow, herbs of grace had been growing
silently; and, when the heavy rains had melted all the
frost away, they sprung up to blossom beautifully in the
sun that shines for every spire of grass, and makes it
perfect in its time and place.

Mrs. Wilkins was right; for one June morning, when
she laid “that blessed baby” in its mother's arms,
Christie's first words were:

“Don't let me die: I must live for baby now,” and
gathered David's little daughter to her breast, as if the
soft touch of the fumbling hands had healed every
wound and brightened all the world.

“I told you so; God bless 'em both!” and Mrs. Wilkins
retired precipitately to the hall, where she sat down
upon the stairs and cried most comfortable tears; for
her maternal heart was full of a thanksgiving too deep
for words.

A sweet, secluded time to Christie, as she brooded
over her little treasure and forgot there was a world
outside. A fond and jealous mother, but a very happy
one, for after the bitterest came the tenderest experience
of her life. She felt its sacredness, its beauty, and
its high responsibilities; accepted them prayerfully,
and found unspeakable delight in fitting herself to bear
them worthily, always remembering that she had a

double duty to perform toward the fatherless little
creature given to her care.

It is hardly necessary to mention the changes one
small individual made in that feminine household. The
purring and clucking that went on; the panics over a
pin-prick; the consultations over a pellet of chamomilla;
the raptures at the dawn of a first smile; the
solemn prophecies of future beauty, wit, and wisdom in
the bud of a woman; the general adoration of the
entire family at the wicker shrine wherein lay the idol,
a mass of flannel and cambric with a bald head at one
end, and a pair of microscopic blue socks at the other.
Mysterious little porringers sat unreproved upon the
parlor fire, small garments aired at every window,
lights burned at unholy hours, and three agitated nightcaps
congregated at the faintest chirp of the restless
bird in the maternal nest.

Of course Grandma grew young again, and produced
nursery reminiscences on every occasion; Aunt Letty
trotted day and night to gratify the imaginary wants
of the idol, and Christie was so entirely absorbed that
the whole South might have been swallowed up by an
earthquake without causing her as much consternation
as the appearance of a slight rash upon the baby.

No flower in David's garden throve like his little June
rose, for no wind was allowed to visit her too roughly;
and when rain fell without, she took her daily airing in
the green-house, where from her mother's arms she soon
regarded the gay sight with such sprightly satisfaction
that she seemed a little flower herself dancing on its
stem.

She was named Ruth for grandma, but Christie

always called her “Little Heart's-ease,” or “Pansy,” and
those who smiled at first at the mother's fancy, came in
time to see that there was an unusual fitness in the
name. All the bitterness seemed taken out of Christie's
sorrow by the soft magic of the child: there was
so much to live for now she spoke no more of dying;
and, holding that little hand in hers, it grew easier to
go on along the way that led to David.

A prouder mother never lived; and, as baby waxed
in beauty and in strength, Christie longed for all the
world to see her. A sweet, peculiar, little face she had,
sunny and fair; but, under the broad forehead where
the bright hair fell as David's used to do, there shone
a pair of dark and solemn eyes, so large, so deep, and
often so unchildlike, that her mother wondered where
she got them. Even when she smiled the shadow lingered
in these eyes, and when she wept they filled and
overflowed with great, quiet tears like flowers too full
of dew. Christie often said remorsefully:

“My little Pansy! I put my own sorrow into your
baby soul, and now it looks back at me with this
strange wistfulness, and these great drops are the unsubmissive
tears I locked up in my heart because I
would not be grateful for the good gift God gave me,
even while he took that other one away. O Baby,
forgive your mother; and don't let her find that she
has given you clouds instead of sunshine.”

This fear helped Christie to keep her own face cheerful,
her own heart tranquil, her own life as sunny,
healthful, and hopeful as she wished her child's to be.
For this reason she took garden and green-house into
her own hands when Bennet gave them up, and, with a

stout lad to help her, did well this part of the work
that David bequeathed to her. It was a pretty sight
to see the mother with her year-old daughter out
among the fresh, green things: the little golden head
bobbing here and there like a stray sunbeam; the baby
voice telling sweet, unintelligible stories to bird and
bee and butterfly; or the small creature fast asleep in
a basket under a rose-bush, swinging in a hammock
from a tree, or in Bran's keeping, rosy, vigorous, and
sweet with sun and air, and the wholesome influence
of a wise and tender love.

While Christie worked she planned her daughter's
future, as mothers will, and had but one care concerning
it. She did not fear poverty, but the thought of
being straitened for the means of educating little
Ruth afflicted her. She meant to teach her to labor
heartily and see no degradation in it, but she could not
bear to feel that her child should be denied the harmless
pleasures that make youth sweet, the opportunities
that educate, the society that ripens character and
gives a rank which money cannot buy. A little sum to
put away for Baby, safe from all risk, ready to draw
from as each need came, and sacredly devoted to this
end, was now Christie's sole ambition.

With this purpose at her heart, she watched her
fruit and nursed her flowers; found no task too hard,
no sun too hot, no weed too unconquerable; and soon
the garden David planted when his life seemed barren,
yielded lovely harvests to swell his little daughter's
portion.

One day Christie received a letter from Uncle Enos
expressing a wish to see her if she cared to come so

far and “stop a spell.” It both surprised and pleased
her, and she resolved to go, glad that the old man
remembered her, and proud to show him the great success
of her life, as she considered Baby.

So she went, was hospitably received by the ancient
cousin five times removed who kept house, and greeted
with as much cordiality as Uncle Enos ever showed to
any one. He looked askance at Baby, as if he had
not bargained for the honor of her presence; but he
said nothing, and Christie wisely refrained from mentioning
that Ruth was the most remarkable child ever
born.

She soon felt at home, and went about the old house
visiting familiar nooks with the bitter, sweet satisfaction
of such returns. It was sad to miss Aunt Betsey in the
big kitchen, strange to see Uncle Enos sit all day in his
arm-chair too helpless now to plod about the farm and
carry terror to the souls of those who served him. He
was still a crabbed, gruff, old man; but the narrow,
hard, old heart was a little softer than it used to be; and
he sometimes betrayed the longing for his kindred that
the aged often feel when infirmity makes them desire
tenderer props than any they can hire.

Christie saw this wish, and tried to gratify it with a
dutiful affection which could not fail to win its way.
Baby unconsciously lent a hand, for Uncle Enos could
not long withstand the sweet enticements of this little
kinswoman. He did not own the conquest in words,
but was seen to cuddle his small captivator in private;
allowed all sorts of liberties with his spectacles, his
pockets, and bald pate; and never seemed more comfortable
than when she confiscated his newspaper, and

sitting on his knee read it to him in a pretty language
of her own.

“She 's a good little gal; looks consid'able like you;
but you warn't never such a quiet puss as she is,” he
said one day, as the child was toddling about the room
with an old doll of her mother's lately disinterred from
its tomb in the garret.

“She is like her father in that. But I get quieter as
I grow old, uncle,” answered Christie, who sat sewing
near him.

“You be growing old, that 's a fact; but somehow
it's kind of becomin'. I never thought you 'd be so
much of a lady, and look so well after all you 've ben
through,” added Uncle Enos, vainly trying to discover
what made Christie's manners so agreeable in spite of
her plain dress, and her face so pleasant in spite of the
gray hair at her temples and the lines about her
mouth.

It grew still pleasanter to see as she smiled and
looked up at him with the soft yet bright expression
that always made him think of her mother.

“I 'm glad you don't consider me an entire failure,
uncle. You know you predicted it. But though I
have gone through a good deal, I don't regret my
attempt, and when I look at Pansy I feel as if I 'd made
a grand success.”

“You haven't made much money, I guess. If you
don't mind tellin', what have you got to live on?'
asked the old man, unwilling to acknowledge any life
a success, if dollars and cents were left out of it.

“Only David's pension and what I can make by my
garden.”

“The old lady has to have some on 't, don't she?”

“She has a little money of her own; but I see that
she and Letty have two-thirds of all I make.”

“That ain't a fair bargain if you do all the work.”

“Ah, but we don't make bargains, sir: we work for
one another and share every thing together.”

“So like women!” grumbled Uncle Enos, longing to
see that “the property was fixed up square.”

“How are you goin' to eddicate the little gal? I
s'pose you think as much of culter and so on as ever
you did,” he presently added with a gruff laugh.

“More,” answered Christie, smiling too, as she remembered
the old quarrels. “I shall earn the money, sir.
If the garden fails I can teach, nurse, sew, write, cook
even, for I 've half a dozen useful accomplishments at
my fingers' ends, thanks to the education you and dear
Aunt Betsey gave me, and I may have to use them all
for Pansy's sake.”

Pleased by the compliment, yet a little conscience-stricken
at the small share he deserved of it, Uncle Enos
sat rubbing up his glasses a minute, before he led to the
subject he had in his mind.

“Ef you fall sick or die, what then?”

“I 've thought of that,” and Christie caught up the
child as if her love could keep even death at bay. But
Pansy soon struggled down again, for the dirty-faced
doll was taking a walk and could not be detained. “If
I am taken from her, then my little girl must do as her
mother did. God has orphans in His special care, and
He won't forget her I am sure.”

Uncle Enos had a coughing spell just then; and, when
he got over it, he said with an effort, for even to talk
of giving away his substance cost him a pang:

“I 'm gettin' into years now, and it 's about time I
fixed up matters in case I 'm took suddin'. I always
meant to give you a little suthing, but as you didn't
ask for 't, I took good care on 't, and it ain't none the
worse for waitin' a spell. I jest speak on 't, so you
needn't be anxious about the little gal. It ain't much,
but it will make things easy I reckon.”

“You are very kind, uncle; and I am more grateful
than I can tell. I don't want a penny for myself, but I
should love to know that my daughter was to have an
easier life than mine.”

“I s'pose you thought of that when you come so
quick?” said the old man, with a suspicious look, that
made Christie's eyes kindle as they used to years ago,
but she answered honestly:

“I did think of it and hope it, yet I should have
come quicker if you had been in the poor-house.”

Neither spoke for a minute; for, in spite of generosity
and gratitude, the two natures struck fire when they
met as inevitably as flint and steel.

“What 's your opinion of missionaries,” asked Uncle
Enos, after a spell of meditation.

“If I had any money to leave them, I should bequeath
it to those who help the heathen here at home,
and should let the innocent Feejee Islanders worship
their idols a little longer in benighted peace,” answered
Christie, in her usual decided way.

“That 's my idee exactly; but it 's uncommon hard to
settle which of them that stays at home you 'll trust
your money to. You see Betsey was always pesterin'
me to give to charity things; but I told her it was better
to save up and give it in a handsome lump that
looked well, and was a credit to you. When she was
dyin' she reminded me on 't, and I promised I 'd do
suthing before I follered. I 've been turnin' on 't over
in my mind for a number of months, and I don't
seem to find any thing that 's jest right. You 've ben
round among the charity folks lately accordin' to your
tell, now what would you do if you had a tidy little
sum to dispose on?”

“Help the Freed people.”

The answer came so quick that it nearly took the old
gentleman's breath away, and he looked at his niece
with his mouth open after an involuntary, “Sho!”
had escaped him.

“David helped give them their liberty, and I would
so gladly help them to enjoy it!” cried Christie, all the
old enthusiasm blazing up, but with a clearer, steadier
flame than in the days when she dreamed splendid
dreams by the kitchen fire.

“Well, no, that wouldn't meet my views. What
else is there?” asked the old man quite unwarmed by
her benevolent ardor.

“Wounded soldiers, destitute children, ill-paid
women, young people struggling for independence,
homes, hospitals, schools, churches, and God's charity
all over the world.”

“That 's the pesky part on 't: there 's such a lot
to choose from; I don't know much about any of 'em,”
began Uncle Enos, looking like a perplexed raven with
a treasure which it cannot decide where to hide.

“Whose fault is that, sir?”

The question hit the old man full in the conscience,
and he winced, remembering how many of Betsey's
charitable impulses he had nipped in the bud, and
now all the accumulated alms she would have been
so glad to scatter weighed upon him heavily. He
rubbed his bald head with a yellow bandana, and
moved uneasily in his chair, as if he wanted to get up
and finish the neglected job that made his helplessness
so burdensome.

“I 'll ponder on 't a spell, and make up my mind,”
was all he said, and never renewed the subject again.

But he had very little time to ponder, and he never
did make up his mind; for a few months after Christie's
long visit ended, Uncle Enos “was took suddin',” and
left all he had to her.

Not an immense fortune, but far larger than she expected,
and great was her anxiety to use wisely this
unlooked-for benefaction. She was very grateful, but
she kept nothing for herself, feeling that David's pension
was enough, and preferring the small sum he earned
so dearly to the thousands the old man had hoarded up
for years. A good portion was put by for Ruth, something
for “mother and Letty” that want might never
touch them, and the rest she kept for David's work,
believing that, so spent, the money would be blest.