FictionForest

Chapter 11 – In The Strawberry Bed

Louisa May AlcottNov 05, 2016'Command+D' Bookmark this page

Light off Small Medium Large

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

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

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

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

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

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

At such times Christie seemed to catch glimpses of another David
than the busy, cheerful man apparently contented with the humdrum
duties of an obscure, laborious life, and the few unexciting
pleasures afforded by books, music, and much silent thought. She
sometimes felt with a woman’s instinct that under this composed,
commonplace existence another life went on; for, now and then, in
the interest of conversation, or the involuntary yielding to a
confidential impulse, a word, a look, a gesture, betrayed an
unexpected power and passion, a secret unrest, a bitter memory that
would not be ignored.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Power came now and then, for his large parish left him but
little time to visit any but the needy. Christie enjoyed these brief
visits heartily, for her new friends soon felt that she was one of
them, and cordially took her into the large circle of workers and
believers to which they belonged.

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

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

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

Mr. Power had been interested in her from the first; had watched her
through other eyes, and tried her by various unsuspected tests. She
stood them well; showed her faults as frankly as her virtues, and
tried to deserve their esteem by copying the excellencies she
admired in them.

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

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

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

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

He had time for no more castle-building, for a startled robin flew
away with a shrill chirp, and Christie looked up.

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

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

MR. POWER AND CHRISTIE IN THE STRAWBERRY BED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, he won’t be ambitious. I try to stir him up, for he has
talents; I’ve found that out: but he won’t seem to care for any
thing but watching over his mother, reading his old books, and
making flowers bloom double when they ought to be single."

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

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

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

Christie did not speak for a moment: Mr. Power’s voice had been so
grave, and his words so earnest that she could not answer lightly,
but sat turning over the new thoughts in her mind. Presently she
said, in a penitent but not quite satisfied tone:

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

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

"I hope so!" and Christie’s face brightened at the thought.

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

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

"You are a hero-worshipper, my dear; and if people don’t come up to
the mark you are so disappointed that you fail to see the fine
reality which remains when the pretty romance ends. Saints walk
about the world today as much as ever, but instead of haircloth and
halos they now wear" –

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

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

"And knights go crusading as gallantly as ever against the giants
and the dragons, though you don’t discover it, because, instead of
banner, lance, and shield they carry" –

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

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

"What’s the joke?" he asked, refreshing himself with the handful of
berries Christie offered him.

"Don’t tell," she whispered, looking dismayed at the idea of letting
him know what she had said of him.

But Mr. Power answered tranquilly:

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

The emphasis on the last words enlightened David: his sunburnt cheek
reddened, but he only shook his head, saying: "She will find a brass
farthing I’m afraid, sir," and began to crumble a handful of loam
about the roots of a carnation that seemed to have sprung up by
chance at the foot of the apple-tree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So must I, or they will be waiting for me at the hospital. Give me
a handful of flowers, David: they often do the poor souls more good
than my prayers or preaching."

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

 

Leave a Reply