University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
CHRISTIE.

“AUNT BETSEY, there 's going to be a new Declaration
of Independence.”

“Bless and save us, what do you mean, child?” And
the startled old lady precipitated a pie into the oven
with destructive haste.

“I mean that, being of age, I 'm going to take care

of myself, and not be a burden any longer. Uncle
wishes me out of the way; thinks I ought to go, and,
sooner or later, will tell me so. I don't intend to wait
for that, but, like the people in fairy tales, travel away
into the world and seek my fortune. I know I can
find it.”

Christie emphasized her speech by energetic demonstrations
in the bread-trough, kneading the dough as if
it was her destiny, and she was shaping it to suit herself;
while Aunt Betsey stood listening, with uplifted
pie-fork, and as much astonishment as her placid face
was capable of expressing. As the girl paused, with a
decided thump, the old lady exclaimed:

“What crazy idee you got into your head now?”

“A very sane and sensible one that's got to be
worked out, so please listen to it, ma'am. I've had it a
good while, I've thought it over thoroughly, and I 'm
sure it 's the right thing for me to do. I 'm old enough
to take care of myself; and if I 'd been a boy, I should
have been told to do it long ago. I hate to be dependent;
and now there 's no need of it, I can't bear it any
longer. If you were poor, I wouldn't leave you; for I
never forget how kind you have been to me. But
Uncle doesn't love or understand me; I am a burden to
him, and I must go where I can take care of myself. I
can't be happy till I do, for there 's nothing here for me.
I 'm sick of this dull town, where the one idea is eat,
drink, and get rich; I don't find any friends to help me
as I want to be helped, or any work that I can do well;
so let me go, Aunty, and find my place, wherever it is.”

“But I do need you, deary; and you mustn't think
Uncle don't like you. He does, only he don't show it;

and when your odd ways fret him, he ain't pleasant, I
know. I don't see why you can't be contented; I 've
lived here all my days, and never found the place lonesome,
or the folks unneighborly.” And Aunt Betsey
looked perplexed by the new idea.

“You and I are very different, ma'am. There was
more yeast put into my composition, I guess; and, after
standing quiet in a warm corner so long, I begin to ferment,
and ought to be kneaded up in time, so that I
may turn out a wholesome loaf. You can't do this; so
let me go where it can be done, else I shall turn sour
and good for nothing. Does that make the matter any
clearer?” And Christie's serious face relaxed into a
smile as her aunt's eye went from her to the nicely
moulded loaf offered as an illustration.

“I see what you mean, Kitty; but I never thought
on 't before. You be better riz than me; though, let
me tell you, too much emptins makes bread poor stuff,
like baker's trash; and too much workin' up makes it
hard and dry. Now fly 'round, for the big oven is
most het, and this cake takes a sight of time in the
mixin'.”

“You haven't said I might go, Aunty,” began the girl,
after a long pause devoted by the old lady to the preparation
of some compound which seemed to require
great nicety of measurement in its ingredients; for
when she replied, Aunt Betsey curiously interlarded
her speech with audible directions to herself from the
receipt-book before her.

“I ain't no right to keep you, dear, ef you choose to
take (a pinch of salt). I 'm sorry you ain't happy, and
think you might be ef you 'd only (beat six eggs, yolks and

[ILLUSTRATION]

Aunt Betsey's Interlarded Speech.

[Description: 445EAF. Page 004. In-line image of two women in a kitchen. Christie is kneading dough and listening to Aunt Betsey read from a book.]

whites together). But ef you can't, and feel that you
need (two cups of sugar), only speak to Uncle, and ef
he says (a squeeze of fresh lemon), go, my dear, and
take my blessin' with you (not forgettin' to cover with
a piece of paper).”

Christie's laugh echoed through the kitchen; and the
old lady smiled benignly, quite unconscious of the
cause of the girl's merriment.

“I shall ask Uncle to-night, and I know he won't
object. Then I shall write to see if Mrs. Flint has a
room for me, where I can stay till I get something to

do. There is plenty of work in the world, and I 'm not
afraid of it; so you 'll soon hear good news of me.
Don't look sad, for you know I never could forget you,
even if I should become the greatest lady in the land.”
And Christie left the prints of two floury but affectionate
hands on the old lady's shoulders, as she kissed the
wrinkled face that had never worn a frown to her.

Full of hopeful fancies, Christie salted the pans and
buttered the dough in pleasant forgetfulness of all mundane
affairs, and the ludicrous dismay of Aunt Betsey,
who followed her about rectifying her mistakes, and
watching over her as if this sudden absence of mind
had roused suspicions of her sanity.

“Uncle, I want to go away, and get my own living,
if you please,” was Christie's abrupt beginning, as they
sat round the evening fire.

“Hey! what 's that?” said Uncle Enos, rousing from
the doze he was enjoying, with a candle in perilous
proximity to his newspaper and his nose.

Christie repeated her request, and was much relieved,
when, after a meditative stare, the old man briefly
answered:

“Wal, go ahead.”

“I was afraid you might think it rash or silly, sir.”

“I think it 's the best thing you could do; and I like
your good sense in pupposin' on't.”

“Then I may really go?”

“Soon 's ever you like. Don't pester me about it till
you 're ready; then I 'll give you a little suthing to start
off with.” And Uncle Enos returned to “The Farmer's
Friend,” as if cattle were more interesting than kindred.

Christie was accustomed to his curt speech and careless

manner; had expected nothing more cordial; and,
turning to her aunt, said, rather bitterly:

“Didn't I tell you he 'd be glad to have me go? No
matter! When I 've done something to be proud of, he
will be as glad to see me back again.” Then her voice
changed, her eyes kindled, and the firm lips softened
with a smile. “Yes, I 'll try my experiment; then I 'll
get rich; found a home for girls like myself; or, better
still, be a Mrs. Fry, a Florence Nightingale, or” —

“How are you on 't for stockin's, dear?”

Christie's castles in the air vanished at the prosaic
question; but, after a blank look, she answered pleasantly:

“Thank you for bringing me down to my feet again,
when I was soaring away too far and too fast. I 'm
poorly off, ma'am; but if you are knitting these for me,
I shall certainly start on a firm foundation.” And, leaning
on Aunt Betsey's knee, she patiently discussed the
wardrobe question from hose to head-gear.

“Don't you think you could be contented any way,
Christie, ef I make the work lighter, and leave you
more time for your books and things?” asked the old
lady, loth to lose the one youthful element in her quiet
life.

“No, ma'am, for I can't find what I want here,” was
the decided answer.

“What do you want, child?”

“Look in the fire, and I 'll try to show you.”

The old lady obediently turned her spectacles that
way; and Christie said in a tone half serious, half playful:

“Do you see those two logs? Well that one smouldering

dismally away in the corner is what my life is
now; the other blazing and singing is what I want my
life to be.”

“Bless me, what an idee! They are both a-burnin'
where they are put, and both will be ashes to-morrow;
so what difference doos it make?”

Christie smiled at the literal old lady; but, following
the fancy that pleased her, she added earnestly:

“I know the end is the same; but it does make a
difference how they turn to ashes, and how I spend my
life. That log, with its one dull spot of fire, gives
neither light nor warmth, but lies sizzling despondently
among the cinders. But the other glows from end to
end with cheerful little flames that go singing up the
chimney with a pleasant sound. Its light fills the room
and shines out into the dark; its warmth draws us
nearer, making the hearth the cosiest place in the house,
and we shall all miss the friendly blaze when it dies.
Yes,” she added, as if to herself, “I hope my life may
be like that, so that, whether it be long or short, it will
be useful and cheerful while it lasts, will be missed when
it ends, and leave something behind besides ashes.”

Though she only half understood them, the girl's
words touched the kind old lady, and made her look
anxiously at the eager young face gazing so wistfully
into the fire.

“A good smart blowin' up with the belluses would
make the green stick burn most as well as the dry one
after a spell. I guess contentedness is the best bellus
for young folks, ef they would only think so.”

“I dare say you are right, Aunty; but I want to try
for myself; and if I fail, I 'll come back and follow your

advice. Young folks always have discontented fits, you
know. Didn't you when you were a girl?”

“Shouldn't wonder ef I did; but Enos came along,
and I forgot 'em.”

“My Enos has not come along yet, and never may;
so I 'm not going to sit and wait for any man to give me
independence, if I can earn it for myself.” And a
quick glance at the gruff, gray old man in the corner
plainly betrayed that, in Christie's opinion, Aunt Betsey
made a bad bargain when she exchanged her girlish
aspirations for a man whose soul was in his pocket.

“Jest like her mother, full of hifalutin notions, discontented,
and sot in her own idees. Poor capital to
start a fortin' on.”

Christie's eye met that of her uncle peering over the
top of his paper with an expression that always tried
her patience. Now it was like a dash of cold water on
her enthusiasm, and her face fell as she asked quickly:

“How do you mean, sir?”

“I mean that you are startin' all wrong; your redic'lus
notions about independence and self-cultur won't
come to nothin' in the long run, and you 'll make as bad
a failure of your life as your mother did of her'n.”

“Please, don't say that to me; I can't bear it, for I
shall never think her life a failure, because she tried to
help herself, and married a good man in spite of poverty,
when she loved him! You call that folly; but
I 'll do the same if I can; and I 'd rather have what my
father and mother left me, than all the money you are
piling up, just for the pleasure of being richer than
your neighbors.”

“Never mind, dear, he don't mean no harm!” whispered
Aunt Betsey, fearing a storm.

But though Christie's eyes had kindled and her color
deepened, her voice was low and steady, and her indignation
was of the inward sort.

“Uncle likes to try me by saying such things, and
this is one reason why I want to go away before I get
sharp and bitter and distrustful as he is. I don't suppose
I can make you understand my feeling, but I 'd
like to try, and then I 'll never speak of it again;” and,
carefully controlling voice and face, Christie slowly
added, with a look that would have been pathetically
eloquent to one who could have understood the instincts
of a strong nature for light and freedom: “You say I
am discontented, proud and ambitious; that 's true, and
I 'm glad of it. I am discontented, because I can't help
feeling that there is a better sort of life than this dull
one made up of everlasting work, with no object but
money. I can't starve my soul for the sake of my
body, and I mean to get out of the treadmill if I can.
I 'm proud, as you call it, because I hate dependence
where there isn't any love to make it bearable. You
don't say so in words, but I know you begrudge me a
home, though you will call me ungrateful when I 'm
gone. I 'm willing to work, but I want work that I can
put my heart into, and feel that it does me good, no
matter how hard it is. I only ask for a chance to be a
useful, happy woman, and I don't think that is a bad
ambition. Even if I only do what my dear mother did,
earn my living honestly and happily, and leave a beautiful
example behind me, to help one other woman as
hers helps me, I shall be satisfied.”

Christie's voice faltered over the last words, for the
thoughts and feelings which had been working within

her during the last few days had stirred her deeply, and
the resolution to cut loose from the old life had not
been lightly made. Mr. Devon had listened behind his
paper to this unusual outpouring with a sense of discomfort
which was new to him. But though the words
reproached and annoyed, they did not soften him, and
when Christie paused with tearful eyes, her uncle rose,
saying, slowly, as he lighted his candle:

“Ef I 'd refused to let you go before, I 'd agree to it
now; for you need breakin' in, my girl, and you are
goin' where you 'll get it, so the sooner you 're off the
better for all on us. Come, Betsey, we may as wal
leave, for we can't understand the wants of her higher
nater, as Christie calls it, and we 've had lecterin' enough
for one night.” And with a grim laugh the old man
quitted the field, worsted but in good order.

“There, there, dear, hev a good cry, and forgit all
about it!” purred Aunt Betsey, as the heavy footsteps
creaked away, for the good soul had a most old-fashioned
and dutiful awe of her lord and master.

“I shan't cry but act; for it is high time I was off.
I 've stayed for your sake; now I'm more trouble than
comfort, and away I go. Good-night, my dear old
Aunty, and don't look troubled, for I 'll be a lamb while
I stay.”

Having kissed the old lady, Christie swept her work
away, and sat down to write the letter which was the
first step toward freedom. When it was done, she
drew nearer to her friendly confidante the fire, and till
late into the night sat thinking tenderly of the past,
bravely of the present, hopefully of the future. Twenty-one
to-morrow, and her inheritance a head, a heart, a

pair of hands; also the dower of most New England
girls, intelligence, courage, and common sense, many
practical gifts, and, hidden under the reserve that
soon melts in a genial atmosphere, much romance and
enthusiasm, and the spirit which can rise to heroism
when the great moment comes.

Christie was one of that large class of women who,
moderately endowed with talents, earnest and true-hearted,
are driven by necessity, temperament, or principle
out into the world to find support, happiness, and
homes for themselves. Many turn back discouraged;
more accept shadow for substance, and discover their
mistake too late; the weakest lose their purpose and
themselves; but the strongest struggle on, and, after
danger and defeat, earn at last the best success this
world can give us, the possession of a brave and cheerful
spirit, rich in self-knowledge, self-control, self-help.
This was the real desire of Christie's heart; this was to
be her lesson and reward, and to this happy end she
was slowly yet surely brought by the long discipline of
life and labor.

Sitting alone there in the night, she tried to strengthen
herself with all the good and helpful memories she
could recall, before she went away to find her place in
the great unknown world. She thought of her mother,
so like herself, who had borne the commonplace life of
home till she could bear it no longer.
Then had gone
away to teach, as most country girls are forced to do.
Had met, loved, and married a poor gentleman, and,
after a few years of genuine happiness, untroubled even
by much care and poverty, had followed him out of the
world, leaving her little child to the protection of her
brother.

Christie looked back over the long, lonely years she
had spent in the old farm-house, plodding to school and
church, and doing her tasks with kind Aunt Betsey
while a child; and slowly growing into girlhood, with
a world of romance locked up in a heart hungry for
love and a larger, nobler life.

She had tried to appease this hunger in many ways,
but found little help. Her father's old books were all
she could command, and these she wore out with much
reading. Inheriting his refined tastes, she found nothing
to attract her in the society of the commonplace
and often coarse people about her. She tried to like
the buxom girls whose one ambition was to “get married,”
and whose only subjects of conversation were
“smart bonnets” and “nice dresses.” She tried to
believe that the admiration and regard of the bluff
young farmers was worth striving for; but when one
well-to-do neighbor laid his acres at her feet, she found
it impossible to accept for her life's companion a man
whose soul was wrapped up in prize cattle and big
turnips.

Uncle Enos never could forgive her for this piece of
folly, and Christie plainly saw that one of three things
would surely happen, if she lived on there with no vent
for her full heart and busy mind. She would either
marry Joe Butterfield in sheer desperation, and become
a farmer's household drudge; settle down into a sour
spinster, content to make butter, gossip, and lay up
money all her days; or do what poor Matty Stone had
done, try to crush and curb her needs and aspirations
till the struggle grew too hard, and then in a fit of
despair end her life, and leave a tragic story to haunt
their quiet river.

To escape these fates but one way appeared; to break
loose from this narrow life, go out into the world
and see what she could do for herself. This idea was
full of enchantment to the eager girl, and, after much
earnest thought, she had resolved to try it.

“If I fail, I can come back,” she said to herself, even
while she scorned the thought of failure, for with all
her shy pride she was both brave and ardent, and her
dreams were of the rosiest sort.

“I won't marry Joe; I won't wear myself out in a
district-school for the mean sum they give a woman; I
won't delve away here where I 'm not wanted; and I
won't end my life like a coward, because it is dull and
hard. I 'll try my fate as mother did, and perhaps I
may succeed as well.” And Christie's thoughts went
wandering away into the dim, sweet past when she, a
happy child, lived with loving parents in a different
world from that.

Lost in these tender memories, she sat till the old
moon-faced clock behind the door struck twelve, then
the visions vanished, leaving their benison behind them.

As she glanced backward at the smouldering fire, a
slender spire of flame shot up from the log that had
blazed so cheerily, and shone upon her as she went. A
good omen, gratefully accepted then, and remembered
often in the years to come.