 Chapter 5 of Work, A Story of Experience This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Lee-Piquette December 2008. Work, A Story of Experience, by Louisa May Alcott. Chapter 5. Companion Before she had time to find a new situation, Christie received a note from Miss Tudor, saying that hearing she had left Mrs. Saltonstall, she wanted to offer her the place of companion to an invalid girl, where the duties were light and the compensation large. How kind of her to think of me, said Christie gratefully. I'll go at once and do my best to secure it, for it must be a good thing, or she wouldn't recommend it. Away went Christie to the address sent by Miss Tudor, and as she waited at the door she thought, what a happy family the carols must be. For the house was one of an imposing block in a West End Square, which had its own little park, where a fountain sparkled in the autumn sunshine and pretty children played among the fallen leaves. Mrs. Carroll was a stately woman, still beautiful in spite of her fifty years. But though there were few lines on her forehead, few silver threads in the dark hair that lay smoothly over it, and a gracious smile showed the fine teeth. An indescribable expression of unsubmissive sorrow touched the whole face, betraying that life had brought some heavy cross from which her wealth could purchase no release, for which her pride could find no effectual screen. She looked at Christie with a searching eye, listened attentively when she spoke, and seemed testing her with covert care, as if the place she was to fill demanded some unusual gift or skill. Miss Tudor tells me that you read aloud well, sing sweetly, possess a cheerful temper, and the quiet, patient ways which are peculiarly grateful to an invalid, began Mrs. Carroll with that keen yet wistful gaze and an anxious accent in her voice that went to Christie's heart. Miss Tudor is very kind to think so well of me and my few accomplishments. I have never been with an invalid, but I think I can promise to be patient, willing, and cheerful. My own experience of illness has taught me how to sympathize with others and love to lighten pain. I shall be very glad to try if you think I have any fitness for the place. I do, and Mrs. Carroll's face softened as she spoke, for something in Christie's words or manners seemed to please her. Then slowly, as if the task was a hard one, she added, My daughter has been very ill, and is still weak and nervous. I must hint to you that the loss of one very dear to her was the cause of the illness and the melancholy which now oppresses her. Therefore we must avoid anything that can suggest or recall this trouble. She cares for nothing as yet. We'll see no one, and prefers to live alone. She is still so feeble. This is but natural. Yet solitude is bad for her, and her physician thinks that a new face might rouse her, and the society of one in no way connected with the painful past might interest and do her good. You see, it is a little difficult to find just what we want, for a young companion is best, yet must be discreet and firm as few young people are. Fancying from Mrs. Carroll's manner that Miss Tudor had said more in her favor than had been repeated to her, Christie in a few plain words told her little story, resolving to have no concealments here, and feeling that perhaps her experiences might have given her more firmness and discretion than many women of her age possessed. Mrs. Carroll seemed to find it so. The anxious look lifted a little as she listened, and when Christie ended, she said with a sigh of relief. Yes, I think Miss Tudor is right, and you are the one we want. Come and try it for a week, and then we can decide. Can you begin today? She added, as Christie rose, Every hour is precious, for my poor girl's sad solitude weighs on my heart, and this is my one hope. I will stay with pleasure, answered Christie, thinking Mrs. Carroll's anxiety excessive, yet pitying the mother's pain, for something in her face suggested the idea that she reproached herself in some way for her daughter's state. With secret gratitude that she had dressed with care, Christie took off her things and followed Mrs. Carroll upstairs. Entering a room in what seemed to be a wing of the Great House, they found an old woman sewing. How is Helen today, nurse? asked Mrs. Carroll, pausing. Poorly ma'am, I've been in every hour, but she only says, Let me be quiet, and lies looking up at the picture till it's fit to break your heart to see her. Answered the woman with the shake of the head. I have brought Miss Devon to sit with her a little while. Doctor advises it, and I fancy the experiment may succeed if we can only amuse the dear child and make her forget herself and her troubles. As you please, ma'am, said the old woman, looking with little favour at the newcomer, for the good soul was jealous of any interference between herself and the child she had tended for years. I won't disturb her, but you shall take Miss Devon in and tell Helen Mama sense her love, and hope she will make an effort for all our sakes. Yes, ma'am. Go, my dear, and do your best. With these words, Mrs. Carroll hastily left the room, and Christie followed nurse. A quick glance showed her that she was in the daintily furnished Uduar of a rich man's daughter, but before she could take a second look, her eyes were arrested by the occupants of this pretty place, and she forgot all else. On a low, luxurious couch lay a girl, so beautiful and pale and still, that for an instant Christie thought her dead or sleeping. She was neither, for at the sound of a voice the great eyes opened wide, darkening and dilating with a strange expression as they fell on the unfamiliar face. Nurse, who is that? I told you I would see no one. I'm too ill to be so worried, she said, in an imperious tone. Yes, dear, I know, but your mama wished you to make an effort. Miss Devon is to sit with you and try to cheer you up a bit, said the old woman in a dissatisfied tone, that contrasted strangely with the tender way in which she stroked the beautiful disordered hair that hung about the girl's shoulders. Helen knit her brows, and looked most ungracious, but evidently tried to be civil, for with the courteous wave of her hand toward an easy chair in the sunny window she said quietly, Please sit down, Miss Devon, and excuse me for a little while. I've had a bad night, and am too tired to talk just yet. There are books of all sorts, or the conservatory, if you like it better. Thank you. I'll read quietly till you want me, then I shall be very glad to do anything I can for you. With that, Christie retired to the big chair, and fell to reading the first book she took up, a good deal embarrassed by her reception, and very curious to know what would come next. The old woman went away after folding the down coverlet carefully over her darling's feet, and Helen seemed to go to sleep. For a time, the room was very still. The fire burned softly on the marble hearth. The sun shone warmly on velvet carpet and rich hangings. The delicate breath of flowers blew in through the half-open door that led to a gay little conservatory, and nothing but the roll of a distant carriage broke the silence now and then. Christie's eyes soon wandered from her book to the lovely face and motionless figure on the couch. Just opposite in a recess hung the portrait of a young and handsome man, and below it stood a vase of flowers, a graceful Roman lamp, and several little relics, as if it were the shrine where some dead love was mourned and worshiped still. As she looked from the living face, so pale and so pathetic in its quietude, to the painted one, so full of color, strength, and happiness, her heart ached for poor Helen, and her eyes were wet with tears of pity. A sudden movement on the couch gave her no time to hide them, and as she hastily looked down upon her book, a treacherous drop fell glittering on the page. What have you there so interesting? asked Helen in that softly imperious tone of hers. Don Quixote answered Christie, too much a bash to have her wits about her. Helen smiled a melancholy smile as she rose, saying warily. They gave me that to make me laugh, but I did not find it funny. Neither was it sad enough to make me cry as you do. I was not reading. I was there, Christie broke down, and could have cried with fixation at the bad beginning she had made. But that involuntary tear was better bombed to Helen than the most perfect tact, the most brilliant conversation. It touched and won her without words, for sympathy works miracles. Her whole face changed, and her mournful eyes grew soft, as with the gentle freedom of a child, she lifted Christie's downcast face and said, with a falter in her voice, I know you were pitying me. Well, I need pity, and from you I'll take it, because you don't force it on me. Have you been ill and wretched, too? I think so, else you would never care to come and shut yourself up here with me. I have been ill, and I know how hard it is to get one's spirits back again. I've had my troubles, too, but not heavier than I could bear, thank God. What made you ill? Would you mind telling me about it? I seem to fancy hearing other people's woes, though it can't make mine seem lighter. A piece of the castle of the sun fell on my head and nearly killed me, and Christie laughed in spite of herself at the astonishment in Helen's face. I was an actress once, your mother knows and didn't mind, she added quickly. I'm glad of that. I used to wish I could be one. I was so fond of the theatre. They should have consented. It would have given me something to do, and however hard it is, it couldn't be worse than this. Helen spoke vehemently, and an excited flesh rose to her white cheeks. Then she checked herself and dropped into a chair, saying hurriedly, Tell about it. Don't let me think. It's bad for me. Glad to be set to work, and bent on retrieving her first mistake, Christie plunged into her theatrical experiences and talked away in her most lively style. People usually get eloquent when telling their own stories, and true tales are always the most interesting. Helen listened at first with a half absent air, but presently grew more attentive, and when the catastrophe came, sat erect, quite absorbed in the interest of this glimpse behind the curtain. Charmed with her success, Christie branched off right and left, stimulated by questions, led on by suggestive incidents, and generously supplied by memory. Before she knew it, she was telling her whole history in the most expansive manner, for women soon get sociable together, and Helen's interest flattered her immensely. Once she made her laugh at some drill trifle, and as if the unaccustomed sound had startled her, old nurse popped in her head, but seeing nothing amiss, retired, wondering what on earth that girl could be doing to cheer up Miss Helen so. Tell about your lovers, you must have had some, actresses always do. Happy women, they can love as they like, said Helen, with the inquisitive frankness of an invalid for whom etiquette has ceased to exist. Remembering in time that this was a forbidden subject, Christie smiled and shook her head. I had a few, but one does not tell those secrets, you know. Evidently disappointed, and a little displeased at being reminded of her want of good-breeding, Helen got up and began to wander restlessly about the room. Presently, as if wishing to atone for her impatience, she bade Christie come and see her flowers. Following her, the new companion found herself in a little world where perpetual summer rained. Vines curtained the roof, slender shrubs and trees made leafy walls on either side, flowers bloomed above and below, birds caroled in half-hidden prisons, aquariums and funeraries stood all about, and the soft plash of a little fountain made pleasant music as it rose and fell. Helen threw herself dwearily down on a pile of cushions that lay beside the basin, and beckoning Christie to sit near, said, as she pressed her hand to her hot forehead and looked up with a distressful brightness in the haggard eyes that seemed to have no rest in them. Pleasing to me, any humdrum air will do. I am so tired, and yet I cannot sleep. If my head would only stop this dreadful thinking, and let me forget one hour, it would do me so much good. I know the feeling, and I'll try what Lucy used to do to quiet me. Put your poor head in my lap, dear, and lie quite still while I cool and comfort it. Obeying like a worn-out child, Helen lay motionless while Christie, dipping her fingers in the basin, passed the wet tips softly to and fro across the hot forehead, and the thin temples where the pulses throbbed so fast, and while she soothed, she sang the land of the leal and sang it well. For the tender words, the plaint of air were dear to her, because her mother loved and sang it to her years ago. Slowly the heavy eyelids drooped. Slowly the lines of pain were smoothed away from the broad brow. Slowly the restless hands grew still, and Helen lay asleep. So intent upon her task was Christie, that she forgot herself till the discomfort of her position reminded her that she had a body. Fearing to wake the poor girl in her arms, she tried to lean against the basin, but could not reach a cushion to lay upon the cold stone ledge. An unseen hand supplied the want, and looking round, she saw two young men standing behind her. Helen's brothers, without doubt, for though utterly unlike in expression, some of the family traits were strongly marked in both. The elder wore the dress of a priest, had a pale, ascetic face, with melancholy eyes, stern mouth, and the absent air of one who leads an inward life. The younger had a more attractive face. For though bearing marks of dissipation, it betrayed a generous ardent nature, proud and willful, yet lovable in spite of all defects. He was very boyish still, and plainly showed how much he felt, as with a hasty nod to Christie, he knelt down beside his sister, saying in a whisper, Look at her, Augustine, so beautiful, so quiet, what a comfort it is to see her like herself again. Ah, yes, and but for the sin of it, I could find it in my heart to wish she might never wake, returned the other gloomily. Don't say that. How could we live without her? Then, turning to Christie, the younger said in a friendly tone, You must be very tired. Let us lay her on the sofa. It is very damp here, and if she sleeps long you will faint from weariness. Carefully lifting her, the brothers carried the sleeping girl into her room and laid her down. She sighed as her head touched the pillow, and her arm clung to Harry's neck, as if she felt his nearness even in sleep. He put his cheek to hers, and lingered over her with an affectionate solicitude, beautiful to see. Augustine stood silent, grave and cold as if he had done with human ties, yet found it hard to sever this one, for he stretched his hand above his sister as if he blessed her. Then, with another grave bow to Christie, went away as noiselessly as he had come. But Harry kissed the sleeper tenderly, whispered, be kind to her, with an imploring voice, and hurried from the room as if to hide the feeling that he must not show. A few minutes later, the nurse brought in a note from Mrs. Carroll. My son tells me that Helen is asleep, and you look very tired. Leave her to Hester now. You have done enough today, so let me thank you heartily and send you home for a quiet night before you continue your good work tomorrow. Christie went, found a carriage waiting for her, and drove home, very happy at the success of her first attempt at companionship. The next day she entered upon the new duties with interest and good will, for this was work in which heart took part, as well as head and hand. Many things surprised, and some things perplexed her as she came to know the family better. But she discreetly held her tongue, used her eyes, and did her best to please. Mrs. Carroll seemed satisfied, often thanked her for her faithfulness to Helen, but seldom visited her daughter, never seemed surprised or grieved that the girl expressed no wish to see her. And though her handsome face always wore its gracious smile, Christie soon felt very sure that it was a mask put on to hide some heavy sorrow from a curious world. Augustine never came, except when Helen was asleep. Then, like a shadow, he passed in and out, always silent, cold in grave, but in his eyes the gloom of some remorseful pain that prayers and penances seemed powerless to heal. Harry came every day, and no matter how melancholy, listless or irritable his sister might be, for him she always had a smile, an affectionate greeting, a word of praise, or a tender warning against the reckless spirit that seemed to possess him. The love between them was very strong, and Christie found a never-failing pleasure in watching them together. For then Helen showed what she once had been, and Harry was his best self. A boy still, in spite of his one and twenty years, he seemed to feel that Helen's room was a safe refuge from the temptations that beset one of his thoughtless and impetuous nature. Here he came to confess his faults and follies with the frankness which is half-sad, half-comical, and wholly charming in a good-hearted young scatterbrain. Here he brought gay gossip, lively descriptions, and masculine criticisms of the world he moved in. All his hopes and plans, joys and sorrows, successes and defeats, he told to Helen. And she, poor soul, in this one happy love of her sad life, forgot a little the burden of despair that darkened all the world to her. For his sake she smiled. To him she talked when others got no word from her, and Harry's salvation was the only duty that she owned or tried to fulfill. A younger sister was away at school, but the other seldom spoke of her, and Christie tired herself with wondering why Bella never wrote to Helen, and why Harry seemed to have nothing but a gloomy sort of pity to bestow upon the blooming girl whose picture hung in the great drawing-room below. It was a very quiet winter, yet a very pleasant one to Christie, for she felt herself loved and trusted, saw that she suited, and believed that she was doing good, as women best loved to do it, by bestowing sympathy and care with generous devotion. Helen and Harry loved her like an elder sister. Augustine showed that he was grateful, and Mrs. Carol sometimes forgot to put on her mask before one who seemed fast becoming confidant, as well as companion. In the spring the family went to the fine old country house just out of town, and here Christie and her charge led a freer, happier life. Walking and driving, boating and gardening, with pleasant days on the wide terrace, where Helen swung idly in her hammock while Christie read or talked to her, and summer twilight beguiled with music or the silent reveries more eloquent than speech, which real friends may enjoy together and find the sweeter for the mute companionship. Harry was with them and devoted to his sister, who seemed slowly to be coming out of her sad gloom, one by patient tenderness, and the cheerful influences all about her. Christie's heart was full of pride and satisfaction, as she saw the altered face, heard the tone of interest in that once hopeless voice, and felt each day more sure that Helen had outlived the loss that seemed to have broken her heart. Alas for Christie's pride, for Harry's hope, and for poor Helen's bitter fate. When all was brightest, the black shadow came. When all looked safest, danger was at hand, and when the past seemed buried, the ghost which haunted it returned, for the punishment of a broken law is as inevitable as death. When settled in town again, Bella came home, a gay young girl who should have brought sunshine and happiness into her home. But from the hour she returned, a strange anxiety seemed to possess the others. Mrs. Carroll watched over her with sleepless care, was evidently full of maternal pride in the lovely creature, and began to dream dreams about her future. She seemed to wish to keep the sisters apart, and said to Christie, as if to explain this wish. Bella was away when Helen's trouble and illness came, she knows very little of it, and I do not want her to be saddened by the knowledge. Helen cares only for Hal, and Bella is too young to be of any use to my poor girl. Therefore, the less they see of each other, the better for both. I am sure you agree with me, she added, with that covert scrutiny which Christie had often felt before. She could butt acquiesce in the mother's decision, and devote herself more faithfully than ever to Helen, who soon needed all her care and patience. For a terrible unrest grew upon her, bringing sleepless nights again, moody days, and all the old afflictions with redoubled force. Bella came out, and began her career as a beauty and a belle, most brilliantly. Harry was proud of her, but seemed jealous of other men's admiration for his charming sister, and would excite both Helen and himself over the flirtations into which that child, as they called her, plunged with all the zest of a lighthearted girl, whose head was a little turned with sudden and excessive adoration. In vain, Christie baked Harry not to report these things. In vain, she hinted that Bella had better not come to show herself to Helen night after night, in all the dainty splendor of her youth and beauty. In vain, she asked Mrs. Carol to let her go away to some quieter place with Helen, since she never could be persuaded to join in any gaiety at home or abroad. All seemed willful, blind, or governed by the fear of the gossiping world. So the days rolled on till an event occurred which enlightened Christie, with startling abruptness, and showed her the skeleton that haunted this unhappy family. Going in one morning to Helen, she found her walking to and fro as she often walked of late, with hurried steps and excited face as if driven by some power beyond her control. Good morning, dear. I'm so sorry you had a restless night, and wish you had sent for me. Will you come out now for an early drive? It's a lovely day, and your mother thinks it would do you good," began Christie, troubled by the state in which she found the girl. But as she spoke, Helen turned on her, crying passionately. My mother, don't speak of her to me. I hate her. Oh, Helen, don't say that. Forgive and forget if she has displeased you, and don't exhaust yourself by brooding over it. Come, dear, and let us soothe ourselves with the little music. I want to hear that new song again, though I can never hope to sing it as you do. Sing, echoed Helen, with a shrill laugh. You don't know what you ask. Could you sing when your heart was heavy with the knowledge of a sin about to be committed by those nearest to you? Don't try to quiet me. I must talk whether you listen or not. I shall go frantic if I don't tell someone. All the world will know it soon. Sit down. I'll not hurt you, but don't thwart me, or you'll be sorry for it. Speaking with a vehemence that left her breathless, Helen thrust Christie down upon a seat, and went on with an expression in her face that bereft the listener of power to move or speak. Harry has just told me of it. He was very angry, and I saw it, and made him tell me. Poor boy, he can keep nothing from me. I've been dreading it, and now it's coming. You don't know it then? Young Butler is in love with Bella, and no one has prevented it. Think how wicked when such a curse is on us all. The question what curse rose involuntarily to Christie's lips, but did not pass them, for as if she read the thought, Helen answered it in a whisper that made the blood tingle in the other's veins, so full of ominous suggestion was it. The curse of insanity, I mean. We are all mad, or shall be. We come of a mad race, and for years we have gone recklessly on bequeathing this awful inheritance to our descendants. It should end with us. We are the last. None of us should marry. None dare think of it but Bella, and she knows nothing. She must be told. She must be kept from the sin of deceiving her lover. The agony of seeing her children become what I am, and what we all may be. Here Helen rung her hands, and paced the room in such a paroxysm of impotent despair that Christie sat bewildered and aghast, wondering if this were true, or but the fancy of a troubled brain. Mrs. Carroll's face and manner returned to her with sudden vividness, so did Augustine's gloomy expression, and the strange wish uttered over his sleeping sister long ago. Harry's reckless, aimless life might be explained in this way, and all that had perplexed her through that year. Everything confirmed the belief that this tragical assertion was true, and Christie covered up her face, murmuring with an involuntary shiver. My God, how terrible! Helen came and stood before her with such grief and penitence in her countenance that for a moment it conquered the despair that had broken bounds. We should have told you this at first. I longed to do it, but I was afraid you'd go and leave me. I was so lonely, so miserable, Christie. I could not give you up when I had learned to love you, and I did learn very soon, for no wretched creature ever needed help and comfort more than I. For your sake, I tried to be quiet, to control my shattered nerves, and hide my desperate thoughts. You helped me very much, and your unconsciousness made me doubly watchful. Forgive me, don't desert me now, for the old horror may be coming back, and I want you more than ever. Too much move to speak, Christie held out her hands with a face full of pity, love, and grief. Poor Helen clung to them, as if her only help lay there, and for a moment was quite still. But not long. The old anguish was too sharp to be born in silence. The relief of confidence, once tasted, was too great to be denied. And breaking loose, she went to and fro again, pouring out the bitter secret which had been weighing upon heart and conscience for a year. You wonder that I hate my mother. Let me tell you why. When she was beautiful and young, she married, knowing the sad history of my father's family. He was rich. She poor and proud. Ambition made her wicked. And she did it after being warned that, though he might escape, his children were sure to inherit the curse. For when one generation goes free, it falls more heavily upon the rest. She knew it all, and yet she married him. I have heard to thank for all I suffer, and I cannot love her, though she is my mother. It may be wrong to say these things, but they are true. They burn in my heart, and I must speak out. For I tell you there comes a time when children judge their parents as men and women in spite of filial duty, and woe to those whose actions change affection and respect to hatred or contempt. The bitter grief, the solemn fervor of her words, both touched and awed Christy too much for speech. Helen had passed beyond the bounds of ceremony, fear, or shame. Her hard lot, her dark experience, set her apart, and gave her the right to utter the bare truth. To her heart's core Christy felt that warning, and for the first time saw what many never see or willfully deny. The awful responsibility that lies on every man and woman's soul, forbidding them to entail upon the innocent the burden of their own infirmities, the curse that surely follows their own sins. Sad and stern, as an accusing angel, that most unhappy daughter spoke. If ever a woman had cause to repent, it is my mother. But she will not, until she does, God has forsaken us. Nothing can subdue her pride, not even an affliction like mine. She hides the truth, she hides me, and lets the world believe I am dying of consumption. Not a word about insanity, and no one knows the secret beyond ourselves, but doctor, nurse, and you. This is why I was not sent away, but for a year was shut up in that room yonder where the door is always locked. If you look in, you'll see barred windows, guarded fire, muffled walls, and other sights to chill your blood, when you remember all those dreadful things were meant for me. Don't speak, don't think of them, don't talk any more. Let me do something to comfort you, for my heart is broken with all this," cried Christie, panic-stricken at the picture Helen's words had conjured up. I must go on. There is no rest for me till I have tried to lighten this burden by sharing it with you. Let me talk, let me wear myself out, then you shall help and comfort me, if there is any help and comfort for such as I. Now I can tell you all about my Edward, and you'll listen, though Mama forbade it. Three years ago my father died, and we came here. I was well then, and oh, how happy. Clasping her hands above her head, she stood like a beautiful pale image of despair, tearless and mute, but with such a world of anguish in the eyes lifted to the smiling picture opposite, that it needed no words to tell the story of a broken heart. How I loved him, she said softly, while her whole face glowed for an instant with the light and warmth of a deathless passion. How I loved him, and how he loved me. Too well to let me darken both our lives with a remorse which would come too late for a just atonement. I thought him cruel then. I bless him for it now. I had far rather be the innocent sufferer I am than a wretched woman like my mother. I shall never see him any more, but I know he thinks of me far away in India, and when I die, one faithful heart will remember me. There her voice faltered and failed, and for a moment the fire of her eyes was quenched in tears. Christy thought the reaction had come, and rose to go and comfort her. But instantly Helen's hand was on her shoulder, and pressing her back into her seat, she said almost fiercely, I'm not done yet. Jan must hear the whole and help me to save Bella. We knew nothing of the blight that hung her over us till Father told Augustine upon his deathbed. August, urged my mother, kept it to himself, and went away to bear it as he could. He should have spoken out and saved me in time. But not till he came home and found me engaged did he have courage to warn me of the fate in store for us. So Edward tore himself away, although it broke his heart and eye. Do you see that? With a quick gesture she rent opened her dress, and on her bosom Christy saw a scar that made her turn yet paler than before. Yes, I tried to kill myself, but they would not let me die, so the old tragedy of our house begins again. August became a priest, hoping to hide his calamity and expiate his father's sin by endless penances and prayers. Harry turned reckless for what had he to look forward to. A short life and a gay one, he says, and when his turn comes he will spare himself long suffering as I tried to do it. Bella was never told. She was so young they kept her ignorant of all they could, even the knowledge of my state. She was long away at school, but now she has come home, now she has learned to love, and is going blindly as I went, because no one tells her what she must know soon or late. Mama will not. August hesitates, remembering me. Harry swears he will speak out, but I implore him not to do it, for he will be too violent, and I am powerless. I never knew about this man till Hal told me today. Bella only comes in for a moment, and I have no chance to tell her she must not love him. Pressing her hands to her temples, Helen resumed her restless march again, but suddenly broke out more violently than before. Now do you wonder why I am hefrantic? Now will you ask me to sing and smile, and sit calmly by while this wrong goes on? You have done much for me, and God will bless you for it, but you cannot keep me sane. Death is the only cure for a mad carol, and I am so young, so strong, it will be long incoming unless I hurry it. She clenched her hands, set her teeth, and looked about her as if ready for any desperate act that should set her free from the dark and dreadful future that lay before her. For a moment Christy feared and trembled, then pity conquered fear. She forgot herself, and only remembered this poor girl, so hopeless, helpless, and afflicted. Led by a sudden impulse, she put both arms about her, and held her close with a strong but silent tenderness better than any bonds. At first Helen seemed unconscious of it, as she stood rigid and motionless, with her wild eyes, dumbly imploring help of earth and heaven. Suddenly both strength and excitement seemed to leave her, and she would have fallen but for the living, loving prop that sustained her. Still silent, Christy laid her down, kissed her white lips, and busied herself about her, till she looked up quite herself again, but so wan and weak it was pitiful to see her. It's over now, she whispered with a desolate sigh. Sing to me, and keep the evil spirit quiet for a little while. Tomorrow, if I'm strong enough, we'll talk about poor little Bella. And Christy sang, with tears dropping fast upon the keys, that made a soft accompaniment to the sweet old hymns which soothed this troubled soul, as David's music brought to her pose to Saul. When Helen slept at last from sheer exhaustion, Christy executed the resolution she had made as soon as the excitement of that stormy scene was over. She went straight to Mrs. Carol's room, and undeterred by the presence of her sons, told all that had passed. They were evidently not unprepared for it, thanks to Old Hester, who had overheard enough of Helen's wild words to note that something was amiss, and had reported accordingly. But none of them had ventured to interrupt the interview, lest Helen should be driven to desperation as before. Mother, Helen is right, we should speak out and not hide this bitter fact any longer. The world will pity us, and we must bear the pity, but it would condemn us for deceit, and we should deserve the condemnation if we let this misery go on. Living a lie will ruin us all. Bella will be destroyed as Helen was. I am only the shadow of a man now, and Hal is killing himself as fast as he can to avoid the fate we all dread. Augustine spoke first, for Mrs. Carol sat speechless with her trouble as Christy paused. Keep to your prayers, and let me go my own way. It's the shortest, muttered Harry, with his face hidden and his head down on his folded arms. Boys, boys, you'll kill me if you say such things. I have more now than I can bear. Don't drive me wild with your reproaches to each other," cried their mother, her heart rent with the remorse that came too late. No fear of that, you are not a Carol, entered Harry with the pitiless bluntness of a resentful and rebellious boy. Augustine turned on him with a wrathful flash of the eye, and a warning ring in his stern voice as he pointed to the door. You shall not insult your mother. Ask her pardon or go. She should ask mine. I'll go. When you want me, you'll know where to find me. And with a reckless laugh, Harry stormed out of the room. Augustine's indignant face grew full of a new trouble as the door banged below, and he pressed his thin hands tightly together, saying as if to himself, Heaven help me. Yes, I do know. For night after night I find and bring the poor lad home from gambling tables and the hells where souls like his are lost. Here Christy thought to slip away, feeling that it was no place for her now that her errand was done, but Mrs. Carol called her back. Miss Devon, Christy, forgive me that I did not trust you sooner. It was so hard to tell. I hoped so much from time. I never could believe that my poor children would be made the victims of my mistake. Do not forsake us. Helen loves you so. Stay with her. I implore you, and let a most unhappy mother plead for a most unhappy child. Then Christy went to the poor woman and earnestly assured her of her love and loyalty. For now she felt doubly bound to them because they trusted her. What shall we do, they said to her, with pathetic submission, turning like sick people to a healthful soul for help and comfort. Tell Bella all the truth and help her to refuse her lover. Do this just thing, and God will strengthen you to bear the consequences. Was her answer, though she trembled at the responsibility they put upon her? Not yet, cried Mrs. Carol. Let the poor child enjoy the holidays with a light heart. Then we will tell her, and then Heaven help us all. So it was decided. For only a week or two of the old year remained, and no one had the heart to rob poor Bella of the little span of blissful ignorance that now remained to her. A terrible time was that to Christy. For while one sister, blessed with beauty, youth, love, and pleasure, tasted life at its sweetest, the other sat in the black shadow of a growing dread, and wearied Heaven with piteous prayers for her relief. The old horror is coming back. I feel it creeping over me. Don't let it come, Christy. Stay by me. Help me. Keep me sane. And if you cannot, ask God to take me quickly. With words like these, poor Helen clung to Christy, and soul and body Christy devoted herself to the afflicted girl. She would not see her mother, and the unhappy woman haunted that closed door, hungering for the look, the word that never came to her. Augustine was her consolation, and during those troubleous days, the priest was forgotten in the sun. But Harry was all in all to Helen then, and it was touching to see how these unfortunate young creatures clung to one another. She tenderly trying to keep him from the wild life that was surely hastening the fate he might otherwise escape for years, and he patiently bearing all her moods, eager to cheer and soothe the sad captivity from which he could not save her. These tender ministrations seemed to be blessed at last, and Christy began to hope the haunting terror would pass by, as quiet gloom succeeded to wild excitement. The cheerful spirit of the season seemed to reach even that sad room, and in preparing gifts for others, Helen seemed to find a little of that best of all gifts, peace for herself. On New Year's morning, Christy found her garlanding her lover's picture with white roses and the myrtle sprays brideswear. These were his favorite flowers, and I meant to make my wedding wreath of this sweet-scented myrtle, because he gave it to me. She said, with a look that made Christy's eyes grow dim. Don't grieve for me, dear. We shall surely meet here after, though so far asunder here. Nothing can part us there, I devoutly believe, for we leave our burdens all behind us when we go. Then, in a lighter tone, she said, with her arm on Christy's neck, This day is to be a happy one, no matter what comes after it. I'm going to be my old self for a little while, and forget there's such a word as sorrow. Help me to dress, so that when the boys come up, they may find the sister now they have not seen for too long years. Will you wear this, my darling? Your mother beads it, and she tried to have it dainty and beautiful enough to please you. See, your own colors, though the bows are only laid on that they may be changed for others if you like. As she spoke, Christy lifted the cover of the box Old Hesterhead just brought in, and displayed a cashmere wrapper, creamy white, silk lined, downtrimmed, and delicately relieved by rosy knots, like holly berries lying upon snow. Helen looked at it without a word for several minutes, then, gathering up the ribbons, with a strange smile, she said, I like it better so, but I'll not wear it yet. Bless and save us, dearie, it must have a bit of color somewhere, else it looks just like a shroud, cried Hester, and then wrung her hands in dismay as Helen answered quietly. Ah, well, keep it for me then. I shall be happier when I wear it so than in the gayest gown I own, for when you put it on, this poor head and heart of mine will be quiet at last. Motioning Hester to remove the box, Christy tried to banish the cloud her unlucky words had brought to Helen's face by chatting cheerfully as she helped her make herself pretty for the boys. All that day she was unusually calm and sweet, and seemed to yield herself wholly to the happy influences of the hour. Gave and received her gifts so cheerfully that her brothers watched her with delight, and unconscious Bella said, as she hung about her sister, with loving admiration in her eyes. I always thought you would get well, and now I'm sure of it, for you look as you used before I went away to school, and seem just like our own dear Nell. I'm glad of that. I wanted you to feel so, my Bella. I'll accept your happy prophecy, and hope I may get well soon. Very soon. So cheerfully she spoke, so tranquilly she smiled, that all rejoiced over her believing, with love's blindness, that she might yet conquer her malady in spite of their forebodings. It was a very happy day to Christy, not only that she was generously remembered and made one of them by all the family, but because this change for the better in Helen made her heart sing for joy. She had given time, health, and much love to the task, and ventured now to hope they had not been given in vain. One thing only marred her happiness, the sad estrangement of the daughter from her mother, and that evening she resolved to take advantage of Helen's tender mood, and plead for the poor soul who dared not plead for herself. As the brothers and sisters said good night, Helen clung to them, as if lost apart, saying with each embrace, Keep hoping for me, Bella, kiss me, Harry, bless me, Augustine, and all wish for me a happier new year than the last. When they were gone, she wandered slowly round the room, stood long before the picture with its fading garland, sung a little softly to herself, and came at last to Christy, saying like a tired child, I have been good all day, now let me rest. One thing has been forgotten, dear, began Christy, fearing to disturb the quietude that seemed to have been so dearly bought. Helen understood her, and looked up with a sane, sweet face, out of which all resentful bitterness had passed. No, Christy, not forgotten, only kept until the last. Today is a good day to forgive, as we would be forgiven, and I mean to do it before I sleep. Then, holding Christy close, she added, with a quiver of emotion in her voice, I have no words warm enough to thank you, my good angel, for all you have been to me. But I know it will give you a great pleasure to do one thing more. Give dear mama my love, and tell her that when I am quiet for the night, I want her to come and get me to sleep with the old lullaby she used to sing when I was a little child. No gift bestowed that day was so precious to Christy as the joy of carrying this loving message from daughter to mother. How Mrs. Carol received it, need not be told. She would have gone at once, but Christy begged her to wait till rest and quiet after the efforts of the day had prepared Helen for an interview which might undo all that had been done if too hastily attempted. Hester always waited upon her child at night, so feeling that she might be wanted later, Christy went to her own room to rest. Quite sure that Mrs. Carol would come to tell her what had passed, she waited for an hour or two, then went to ask of Hester how the visit had sped. Her mama came up long ago, but the dear thing was fast asleep, so I wouldn't let her be disturbed, and Mrs. Carol went away again, said the old woman, rousing from a nap. Grieved at the mother's disappointment, Christy stole in, hoping that Helen might rouse. She did not, and Christy was about to leave her when, as she bent to smooth the tumbled coverlet, something dropped at her feet. Only a little pearl handled penknife of Harry's, but her heart stood still with fear, for it was open, and as she took it up a red stain came off upon her hand. Helen's face was turned away, and bending nearer Christy saw how deathly pale it looked in the shadow of the darkened room. She listened at her lips. Only a faint flutter of breath parted them. She lifted up the averted head, and on the white throat saw a little wound, from which the blood still flowed. Then, like a flash of light, the meaning of the sudden change which came over her grew clear. Her brave efforts to make the last day happy, her tender goodnight partings, her wish to be at peace with everyone, the tragic death she had chosen rather than live out the tragic life that lay before her. Christy's nerves had been tried to the uttermost. The shock of this discovery was too much for her, and in the act of calling for help, she fainted for the first time in her life. When she was herself again, the room was full of people. Terroristic interfaces passed before her. Broken voices whispered, It is too late! And as she saw the group about the bed, she wished for unconsciousness again. Helen lay in her mother's arms at last, quietly breathing her life away, for though everything that love and skill could devise had been tried to save her, the little knife in that desperate hand had done its work, and this world held no more suffering for her. Harry was down upon his knees beside her, trying to stifle his passionate grief. Augustine prayed audibly above her, and the fervor of his broken words comforted all hearts but one. Bella was clinging, panic-stricken, to the kind old doctor who was sobbing like a boy, for he had loved and served poor Helen as faithfully as if she had been his own. Can nothing save her? Christy whispered as the prayer ended, and a sound of bitter weeping filled the room. Nothing. She is sane and safe at last, thank God. Christy could not but echo his thanksgiving, for the blessed tranquillity of the girl's countenance was such as none but death the great healer can bring. And as they looked, her eyes opened, beautifully clear and calm before they closed forever. From face to face they passed, as if they looked for someone, and her lips moved in vain efforts to speak. Christy went to her, but still the wide, wistful eyes searched the room as if unsatisfied, and with a longing that conquered the mortal weakness of the body, the heart sent forth one tender cry. My mother, I want my mother! There was no need to repeat the piteous call, for as it left her lips she saw her mother's face bending over her, and felt her mother's arms gathering her in an embrace which held her close, even after death had set its seal upon the voiceless prayers for pardon which passed between those reunited hearts. When she was asleep at last, Christy and her mother made her ready for her grave, weeping tender tears as they folded her in the soft, white garment she had put by for that sad hour, and on her breast they laid the flowers she had hung about her lover as a farewell gift. So beautiful she looked when all was done, that in the early dawn they called her brothers, that they might not lose the memory of the blessed peace that shone upon her face, a mute assurance that for her the new year had happily begun. Now my work here is done, and I must go, thought Christy, when the waves of life closed over the spot where another tired swimmer had gone down. But she found that one more task remained for her before she left the family which, on her coming, she had thought so happy. Mrs. Carol, worn out with the long effort to conceal her secret cross, broke down entirely under this last blow, and besought Christy to tell Bella all that she must know. It was a hard task, but Christy accepted it, and when the time came, found that there was very little to be told, for at the deathbed of the elder sister, the younger had learned much of the sad truth. Thus prepared she listened to all that was most carefully and tenderly confided to her, and when the heavy tale was done, she surprised Christy by the unsuspected strength she showed. No tears, no lamentations, for she was her mother's daughter, and inherited the pride that can bear heavy burdens if they are born unseen. Tell me what I must do, and I will do it, she said, with the quiet despair of one who submits to the inevitable, but will not complain. When Christy with difficulty told her that she should give up her lover, Bella bowed her head, and for a moment could not speak. She then lifted it, as if defying her own weakness and spoke out bravely. It shall be done, for it is right. It is very hard for me because I love him. He will not suffer much, for he can love again. I should be glad of that, and I'll try to wish it for his sake. He is young, and if, as Harry says, he cares more for my fortune than myself, so much the better. What next, Christy? Amazed and touched at the courage of the creature, she had fancied a sort of lovely butterfly to be crushed by a single blow. Christy took heart, and instead of soothing sympathy, gave her the solace best fitted for strong natures, something to do for others. What inspired her, Christy never knew? Perhaps it was the year of self-denying service she had rendered for pity's sake. Such devotion is its own reward, and now in herself she discovered unsuspected powers. Live for your mother and your brother's Bella. They need you sorely, and in time I know you will find true consolation in it, although you must relinquish much. Sustain your mother, cheer Augustine, watch over Harry, and be to them what hellen long to be. And fail to do it as she failed, cried Bella with a shudder. Listen, and let me give you this hope, for I sincerely do believe it. Since I came here, I have read many books, thought much, and talked often with Dr. Shirley about this sad affliction. He thinks you and Harry may escape it, if you will. You are like your mother in temperament and temper. You have self-control, strong wills, good nerves, and cheerful spirits. Poor Harry is willfully spoiling all his chances now. But you may save him, and, in the endeavor, save yourself. Oh, Christy, may I hope it. Give me one chance of escape, and I will suffer any hardship to keep it. Let me see anything before me but a life in death like hellen's, and I'll bless you forever. Cried Bella, welcoming this ray of light as a prisoner welcomes sunshine in his cell. Christy trembled at the power of her words, yet, honestly believing them, she let them uplift this disconsolate soul, trusting that they might be in time fulfilled through God's mercy and the saving grace of sincere endeavor. Holding fast to this frail spar, Bella bravely took up arms against her sea of troubles, and rode out the storm. When her lover came to know his fate, she hit her heart and answered no, finding a bitter satisfaction in the end, for Harry was right, and when the fortune was denied him, young Butler did not mourn the woman long. Pride helped Bella to bear it, but it needed all her courage to look down the coming years so bare of all that makes life sweet to youthful souls, so desolate and dark, with duty alone to cheer the thorny way, and the haunting shadow of her race lurking in the background. Submission and self-sacrifice are stern, sad angels, but in time one learns to know and love them, for when they have chastened, they uplift and bless. Dimly discerning this, poor Bella put her hands in there, saying, Lead me, teach me, I will follow and obey you. All soon felt that they could not stay in a house so full of heavy memories, and decided to return to their old home. They begged Christy to go with them, using every argument and entreaty their affection could suggest. Christy needed rest, longed for freedom, and felt that in spite of their regard it would be very hard for her to live among them any longer. Her healthy nature needed brighter influences, stronger comrades, and the memory of Helen weighed so heavily upon her heart that she was eager to forget it for a time in other scenes and other work. So they parted, very sadly, very tenderly, and laden with good gifts. Christy went on her way, weary, but well satisfied, for she had earned her rest. End of chapter 5 Chapter 6 of Work a Story of Experience This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Daniele. Work a story of experience by Luisa May-Arkett. Seems to rest. For some weeks, Christy rested and refreshed herself by making her room gay and comfortable with gifts, lavished on her by the carols, 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 $100 to Uncle Ines. For she had accepted what he had gave her as a loan and set her heart on repaying every fraction of it. Another hundred she gave to Hippsy, 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 her Mrs. would not let her go at any price and the faithful chattel would not run away. Slowly disappointed, Hippsy 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, Hippsy, 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 Chrissy, as Hippsy hesitated to take so much from a fellow worker. The thought of that investment lay warm at Christy's heart and never woke her 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 her his gift, was bestowed in wedding presents upon Lucy, who at length succeeded in winning the heart of the owner of the heavenly highs 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 Chrissy went to it, feeling more solitary than ever as she bade her old friends a long goodbye. The rest of the money burned in her pocket, but she prudently put it by for a rainy day and failed to work again when her brief vacation was over. Hearing of a chance for a good needlewoman in a large and well-conducted mantra-making establishment, she secured it as a temporary thing, for she wanted to divert her mind from that last said 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 workroom 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 four women, would allow. For a while it diverted Chrissy 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 the green grass, bulb old links making rapturous music by the river, and the smell of new moon 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 once landed high, 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 their frivolous purposes and pleasures, which their taste is prompted and their dull life fostered. Grass, gossip and wages were the three topics which absolved them. Chrissy soon tired of the innumerable changes run upon these themes and took refuge in her own thoughts, soon learning to enjoy them undisturbed by the clack of many tongues among her. Her evenings at home were devoted to books for she had a 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. One life was brightened for her by the finding of a friend. Among the girls was one quite skillful creature whose black dress, peculiar face and science ways attracted Chrissy. Her evident desire to be let alone amused the newcomer 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. Chrissy smiled at her when she caught these glances as if to reassure the looker of a good will. But Rachel only colored, kept her eyes fixed on her work, and was more reserved than ever. These interested Chrissy, 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 response 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 lies by emotions, not by years. Strangely haunting eyes to Chrissy, for they seemed to appeal to her with a mute eloquence she could not resist. In vain did Rachel answer her with quiet coldness, not 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 genuine companionship so freely offered it. Chrissy was sure of this, she would not be repulsive, for her own heart was very solitary. She missed Helen and longed to fill the empty place. She would this shy, cold girl as patiently and as gently as a lover might that might win her confidence because all the others had failed to do it. Sometimes she left a flower in Rachel's basket, always mired and nodded as she handed 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 besieging eyes came a look of gratitude, the more touching for his wordlessness and an irrepressible smile broke over her face in answer to the cordial ones that made the sunshine of her day. 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 pertinent curiosity, no but in 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 Chrissie'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 a family, cried Chrissie much touched. Yes, but remember I didn't ask it first, said Rachel, half-cropping 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 Chrissie kissed her warmly, whisked away the tear, and began to paint the lies in store for them in a most enthusiastic way, being much elated with her victory. While Rachel listened with a newly kind 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 had made it all too soon. Chrissie kept her word, asked no questions, volunteered no confidences, but hardly enjoyed the new friendship, and found that it gave life the zest which it had lacked before. Now someone cared for her, and better still, she could make someone happy. And in the act of lavishing the affection of a 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 to Rachel, from the whole of her heart to the larger half of a later 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 cozy evenings with our books and work. I know you need someone to look after you, and I love the early to take care of people. Do come, she would say, with most possessive hospitality. But Rachel always answered steadily. Not yet, Christie, not yet. I've got something to do before I can think of doing anything so beautiful as that. Only love media, and someday 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 buddied so slowly in the spring. Then the frost came and killed the flowers. But the root lived long underneath the snows of suffering, stout, 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 Cotton stood beside her, looking unusually sour and stern, for the ancient version's temper was not of the best. Alone before them all, with their face hidden in her hands, and the spare in every line of a dripping figure, stood Rachel, a meek culprit of the stern bar of justice, where women tried to assist a woman. Was the matter quite greasy, posing 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 bulges of her headdress wrackled 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 consider the most respectable and worthy girl, has been quite the reverse. I shudder to think what the consequences of my taking her without the character, a thing I never do, and was only tempted by her superiority as a prima, might have been if Miss Cotton, having suspicions, had not made sweet 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 Mrs. 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 acknowledgement of the service with a perfect castanet accompaniment, whereas 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 the zeal for you mislead her. I thank you for your polite incineration, Miss. Return the irate forewoman. I never made mistakes, but you will find that you have made a very great one in choosing Rachel for your bosom friend instead of a good 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 held her aloof, Christie turned to Rachel, lift up the hidden face with gentle force, and looked into it improperly as she whispered, is it true? The willful countenance she saw made any other answer needless. Invertingly, her hands fell away, and she hid her own face, atming the one reproach, which, tender and tearful though it was, seemed harder to be born than the stern condemnation gone before. Oh, Rachel, I so loved and trusted you. The grief, affection, and regret that tremble 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 it. Christie was pardoned she implored. Christie's sorrowful reproach that she most nearly felt. Yes, it is true, she said, looking only at the woman who had been there first to be friend, 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 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 I had it is to outlive a scene 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 someone raids my secret in my face and haunts 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 his 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 am grieved and disappointed, I 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 am surprised at you. By no means, it would be the ruin of my establishment, not a girl would remain, and the cart of my rooms would be lost forever, replied Mrs. King, guarded on by the relentless cotton. But what will she go if you send her away? Who will employ her if you inform against her? But stranger we believe in her, if we, who have known her so long, fail to be friend and now. Mrs. King, think of your own daughters, and be a mother to this poor girl for their sake. That last probe touched the woman's heart, her cold eyes softened, her hard mouth relaxed, and pity was about to wind 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 hasty stays, I leave this establishment forever, and followed up the blow by putting on her bonnet with a flourish. Dispectable, 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 anyone 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 you living at once. Time is money here, and we are wasting it. Young ladies, take your seats. All but Chrissy obeyed, yet no one touched a needle, and Mrs. King said hurriedly stabbing pins into the fat cushion on her breast, as if testing the hardness of her heart. Rachel's high went round the room, so pity, aversion, or contempt, on every face, but might not answer in glance, for even Chrissy's highs were then thoughtfully on the ground. And Chrissy's heart seemed to close against her, as she looked, her whole manner changed. Her tear ceased full, her face grew hard, and the 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 now used for such as me to try, but I go back to the whole life, for there are kinder hearts among the sinners than among the saints, and no one can live without a bit of love. Your Magdalena Selim 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, no one of all your vicious Chrissy women dare take it, and keep me from a life that's worse than hell. As she spoke, Rachel flung out her hand with half-deafened gesture, and Chrissy took it, that touched, full of womanly compassion, seemed to exercise the despised spirit that possessed the poor girl in another's pair. Four, with a stifled explanation, she sank down at Chrissy's feet, and lay there weeping in awe the passionate abandonment of love and gratitude, remorse and shame. Never had human voice sounded so heavenly sweet to her, as there which broke silence of the room, as this one friend said, with the earnestness of her true and tender heart. Mrs. King, if you send her away, I might stake her in, for if she does go back to her old life, the scene of it will lie at our door, and God will remember it against us in the end. Someone 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 risked 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 hub holding now. She shall come home with me, no one there need now of his 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 sell 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 old mind. She longed to consent, but Cotton's eyes was upon her, and Cotton's departure would be an irreparable loss. So she decided to end the matter, in the mere summary manner. Plunging a particularly large pin into her cushioned breast, as if it was a relief to inflict that mocked touch 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. Christy's hide went from the figure at the feet to the hard-fetched 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 send by Rachel? I do. I am 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 Christy, with an ignorant 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 is said 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 unfulfilled spirit of the woman shone through the grateful eyes and blessed her for her loyalty. Christy, you have done enough for me, she said. Go back and keep the good place you need. For such a 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 Christy, hotly. I'll do slap-work and starve before I stay with such a narrow-minded, cold-hearted woman. Come home with me at once, and let us lay our plans together. Now, dear, if I wouldn't go, when you first ask me, much less will I go now, for I have 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 someday I'll come back and show you that I'm not forgotten how you loved and helped and trusted me, when all the others cast me off. Vain, where Christy's arguments and appeals. Rachel was immovable, and all her friend could win from her was a promise to send word, now and then, our things prospered with her. And Rachel, I charge you come to me in an instant, no matter what it is, no matter where I am. For if anything 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, Christy, for you love me. You have faith in me, and that will keep me strong and safe when you're gone. Help, my dear, my dear, God bless you forever and forever. Then, Christy, remembering only there, there were two loving women, alone in a world of sin and sorrow, two creature in her arms, kissed and cried over her with sisterly affection, and watched her prayfully 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, Christy neither returned to Mrs. King nor sought another place of any sort, but took home work from a larger establishment and sat, sitting diligently in her little room, waiting, helping, 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 a nightly prayer no petition was more fervently made than that which asked the father of both saints and sinner to keep all Rachel safe and bring her back in his good time. Never had she been so lonely as now, for Christy 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 for seeking one. But she suffered for the want of genial society, for all the tenderness of her nature seemed to have been roused by the brief but most sincere affection. Her hungry heart clamor'd 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 was magic beautifies the little milliner and led with the same tender grace as the post and the mistress whom he makes immortal in a song. But neither friend nor lover came to Christy, 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 time, she made a little festival for herself, by giving to each of the households drudges the most generous gift she could afford, for no one else thought of them, and having now some of the hardship 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 street to forget the solitude she left behind her. Very gay they were, with snow and slate bells, holly bells and garlands below, and Christmas sunshine in the winter sky above. All faces shown, all voices had a cheery ring, and everybody stepped briskly on errands of goodwill, up and down when Christy, 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 feel 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 sickos might be found unbroken, though she had a place in them. Now Christmas tree went by leaving a whiff of penis weakness 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 rugged child eyeing a window full of goodies, smiling even while she was, she could not resist playing Santa Claus till her purse was empty, sending the poor little souls wrapped to home with oranges and apples in either hand, and splendor's weakness in their pockets for the babies. Now, Henry mingled with the melancholy that would not be dispelled, even by these gentle acts, for her heart was very tender than night, and if anyone had asked what gift she decided 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, warm as the animated snowflake could have left, and, opening her door, paused on the tree-shall, smiling with wonder and delight, for in her absence some gentle spirit had remembered her. A fire burned cheerily upon the heart, her lamp was light, and lovely rose tree in full bloom filled the hair with its delicate breath, and its shadow lay a note from Rachel. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, Christy! Long ago you gave me your little rose. I have washed 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 long 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 someday you shall know what you have done for me. Till then, God bless and keep you, dearest friend, your Rachel. Never has with her tears fallen than those that dropped upon the little tree as Christy took it in her arms, and all the rosy classes leaned toward her, as if eager to deliver tender messages. Surely a wish was granted now, for friendly hands had been at work for her. Warm against her heart lay worse as preaches as if uttered by loving voice, and never on that happy night saw the fairer prismas free than the which bloomed so beautifully from the heart of a Magdalene who loved much and was forgiven.