Charles Kingsley - "The Water Babies"

Author - "Title"

Charles Reade - "The Woman Hater"

N. Destouches, translated by Frank J. Morlock - "The Triple Marriage"

Work: A Story of Experience

L >> Louisa May Alcott >> Work: A Story of Experience




"If that hussy stays, I leave this establishment for ever!" and
followed up the blow by putting on her bonnet with a flourish.

At this spectacle, 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 any one 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 your
leaving at once. Time is money here, and we are wasting it. Young
ladies, take your seats."

All but Christie obeyed, yet no one touched a needle, and Mrs. King
sat, hurriedly stabbing pins into the fat cushion on her breast, as
if testing the hardness of her heart.

Rachel's eye went round the room; saw pity, aversion, or contempt,
on every face, but met no answering glance, for even Christie's eyes
were bent thoughtfully on the ground, and Christie's heart seemed
closed against her. As she looked her whole manner changed; her
tears ceased to fall, her face grew hard, and a 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 no
use for such as me to try; better go back to the old life, for there
are kinder hearts among the sinners than among the saints, and no
one can live without a bit of love. Your Magdalen Asylums 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, not one of all you virtuous, Christian women dare take it
and keep me from a life that's worse than hell."

As she spoke Rachel flung out her hand with a half-defiant gesture,
and Christie took it. That touch, full of womanly compassion, seemed
to exorcise the desperate spirit that possessed the poor girl in her
despair, for, with a stifled exclamation, she sunk down at
Christie's feet, and lay there weeping in all the passionate
abandonment of love and gratitude, remorse and shame. Never had
human voice sounded so heavenly sweet to her as that which broke the
silence of the room, as this one friend said, with the earnestness
of a true and tender heart:

"Mrs. King, if you send her away, I must take her in; for if she
does go back to the old life, the sin of it will lie at our door,
and God will remember it against us in the end. Some one 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 risk 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 upholding now. She shall come home with me; no one there
need know of this 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 sew 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 own mind;" she
longed to consent, but Cotton's eye was upon her, and Cotton's
departure would be an irreparable loss, so she decided to end the
matter in the most summary manner. Plunging a particularly large pin
into her cushioned breast, as if it was a relief to inflict that
mock torture 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."

Christie's eye went from the figure at her feet to the hard-featured
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 stand by
Rachel?"

"I do. I'm 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 Christie, with an indignant 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 essayed 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 unfallen spirit of the woman shone through
the grateful eyes, and blessed her for her loyalty.

"Christie, you have done enough for me," she said. "Go back, and
keep the good place you need, for such are 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 Christie, hotly. "I'll do slop-work and
starve, before I'll stay with such a narrow-minded, cold-hearted
woman. Come home with me at once, and let us lay our plans
together."

"No, dear; if I wouldn't go when you first asked me, much less will
I go now, for I've 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 some day I'll come back and show you
that I've not forgotten how you loved and helped and trusted me,
when all the others cast me off."

Vain were Christie's arguments and appeals. Rachel was immovable,
and all her friend could win from her was a promise to send word,
now and then, how things prospered with her.

"And, Rachel, I charge you to come to me in any strait, no matter
what it is, no matter where I am; for if any thing 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, Christie, for you love me,
you have faith in me, and that will keep me strong and safe when you
are gone. Oh, my dear, my dear, God bless you for ever and for
ever!"

Then Christie, remembering only that they were two loving women,
alone in a world of sin and sorrow, took Rachel in her arms, kissed
and cried over her with sisterly affection, and watched her
prayerfully, 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,
Christie neither returned to Mrs. King nor sought another place of
any sort, but took home work from a larger establishment, and sat
sewing diligently in her little room, waiting, hoping, 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 her nightly prayer no petition was more fervently made than
that which asked the Father of both saint and sinner to keep poor
Rachel safe, and bring her back in his good time.

Never had she been so lonely as now, for Christie 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 from seeking one. But she suffered for the want
of genial society, for all the tenderness of her nature seemed to
have been roused by that brief but most sincere affection. Her
hungry heart clamored 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 whose magic beautifies the little milliner and her lad with
the same tender grace as the poet and the mistress whom he makes
immortal in a song. But neither friend nor lover came to Christie,
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-tide she made a little festival for herself, by giving
to each of the household drudges the most generous gift she could
afford, for no one else thought of them, and having known some of
the hardships 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 streets
to forget the solitude she left behind her.

Very gay they were with snow and sleigh-bells, holly-boughs, and
garlands, below, and Christmas sunshine in the winter sky above. All
faces shone, all voices had a cheery ring, and everybody stepped
briskly on errands of good-will. Up and down went Christie, 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 fill 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 circles might be found unbroken, though she had
place in none. No Christmas-tree went by leaving a whiff of piny
sweetness 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 ragged child eying a window full of goodies,
smiling even, while it shivered, she could not resist playing Santa
Claus till her purse was empty, sending the poor little souls
enraptured home with oranges and apples in either hand, and splendid
sweeties in their pockets, for the babies.

No envy mingled with the melancholy that would not be dispelled even
by these gentle acts, for her heart was very tender that night, and
if any one had asked what gifts she desired 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, warmer than
any melted snow-flake could have left, and opening her door paused
on the threshold, smiling with wonder and delight, for in her
absence some gentle spirit had remembered her. A fire burned
cheerily upon the hearth, her lamp was lighted, a lovely rose-tree,
in full bloom, filled the air with its delicate breath, and in its
shadow lay a note from Rachel.

"A merry Christmas and a happy New Year, Christie! Long ago you gave
me your little rose; I have watched 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
longed 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 some day you shall know what you
have done for me. Till then, God bless and keep you, dearest friend,
your RACHEL."

Never had sweeter tears fallen than those that dropped upon the
little tree as Christie took it in her arms, and all the rosy
clusters leaned toward her as if eager to deliver tender messages.
Surely her wish was granted now, for friendly hands had been at work
for her. Warm against her heart lay words as precious as if uttered
by a loving voice, and nowhere, on that happy night, stood a fairer
Christmas tree than that which bloomed so beautifully from the heart
of a Magdalen who loved much and was forgiven.






CHAPTER VII.

THROUGH THE MIST.





THE year that followed was the saddest Christie had ever known,
for she suffered a sort of poverty which is more difficult to bear
than actual want, since money cannot lighten it, and the rarest
charity alone can minister to it. Her heart was empty and she could
not fill it; her soul was hungry and she could not feed it; life was
cold and dark and she could not warm and brighten it, for she knew
not where to go.

She tried to help herself by all the means in her power, and when
effort after effort failed she said: "I am not good enough yet to
deserve happiness. I think too much of human love, too little of
divine. When I have made God my friend perhaps He will let me find
and keep one heart to make life happy with. How shall I know God?
Who will tell me where to find Him, and help me to love and lean
upon Him as I ought?"

In all sincerity she asked these questions, in all sincerity she
began her search, and with pathetic patience waited for an answer.
She read many books, some wise, some vague, some full of
superstition, all unsatisfactory to one who wanted a living God. She
went to many churches, studied many creeds, and watched their fruits
as well as she could; but still remained unsatisfied. Some were cold
and narrow, some seemed theatrical and superficial, some stern and
terrible, none simple, sweet, and strong enough for humanity's many
needs. There was too much machinery, too many walls, laws, and
penalties between the Father and His children. Too much fear, too
little love; too many saints and intercessors; too little faith in
the instincts of the soul which turns to God as flowers to the sun.
Too much idle strife about names and creeds; too little knowledge of
the natural religion which has no name but godliness, whose creed is
boundless and benignant as the sunshine, whose faith is as the
tender trust of little children in their mother's love.

Nowhere did Christie find this all-sustaining power, this paternal
friend, and comforter, and after months of patient searching she
gave up her quest, saying, despondently:

"I'm afraid I never shall get religion, for all that's offered me
seems so poor, so narrow, or so hard that I cannot take it for my
stay. A God of wrath I cannot love; a God that must be propitiated,
adorned, and adored like an idol I cannot respect; and a God who can
be blinded to men's iniquities through the week by a little beating
of the breast and bowing down on the seventh day, I cannot serve. I
want a Father to whom I can go with all my sins and sorrows, all my
hopes and joys, as freely and fearlessly as I used to go to my human
father, sure of help and sympathy and love. Shall I ever find Him?"

Alas, poor Christie! she was going through the sorrowful perplexity
that comes to so many before they learn that religion cannot be
given or bought, but must grow as trees grow, needing frost and
snow, rain and wind to strengthen it before it is deep-rooted in the
soul; that God is in the hearts of all, and they that seek shall
surely find Him when they need Him most.

So Christie waited for religion to reveal itself to her, and while
she waited worked with an almost desperate industry, trying to buy a
little happiness for herself by giving a part of her earnings to
those whose needs money could supply. She clung to her little room,
for there she could live her own life undisturbed, and preferred to
stint herself in other ways rather than give up this liberty. Day
after day she sat there sewing health of mind and body into the long
seams or dainty stitching that passed through her busy hands, and
while she sewed she thought sad, bitter, oftentimes rebellious
thoughts.

It was the worst life she could have led just then, for, deprived of
the active, cheerful influences she most needed, her mind preyed on
itself, slowly and surely, preparing her for the dark experience to
come. She knew that there was fitter work for her somewhere, but how
to find it was a problem which wiser women have often failed to
solve. She was no pauper, yet was one of those whom poverty sets at
odds with the world, for favors burden and dependence makes the
bread bitter unless love brightens the one and sweetens the other.

There are many Christies, willing to work, yet unable to bear the
contact with coarser natures which makes labor seem degrading, or to
endure the hard struggle for the bare necessities of life when life
has lost all that makes it beautiful. People wonder when such as she
say they can find little to do; but to those who know nothing of the
pangs of pride, the sacrifices of feeling, the martyrdoms of youth,
love, hope, and ambition that go on under the faded cloaks of these
poor gentle-women, who tell them to go into factories, or scrub in
kitchens, for there is work enough for all, the most convincing
answer would be, "Try it."

Christie kept up bravely till a wearisome low fever broke both
strength and spirit, and brought the weight of debt upon her when
least fitted to bear or cast it off. For the first time she began to
feel that she had nerves which would rebel, and a heart that could
not long endure isolation from its kind without losing the cheerful
courage which hitherto had been her staunchest friend. Perfect rest,
kind care, and genial society were the medicines she needed, but
there was no one to minister to her, and she went blindly on along
the road so many women tread.

She left her bed too soon, fearing to ask too much of the busy
people who had done their best to be neighborly. She returned to her
work when it felt heavy in her feeble hands, for debt made idleness
seem wicked to her conscientious mind. And, worst of all, she fell
back into the bitter, brooding mood which had become habitual to her
since she lived alone. While the tired hands slowly worked, the
weary brain ached and burned with heavy thoughts, vain longings, and
feverish fancies, till things about her sometimes seemed as strange
and spectral as the phantoms that had haunted her half-delirious
sleep. Inexpressibly wretched were the dreary days, the restless
nights, with only pain and labor for companions. The world looked
very dark to her, life seemed an utter failure, God a delusion, and
the long, lonely years before her too hard to be endured.

It is not always want, insanity, or sin that drives women to
desperate deaths; often it is a dreadful loneliness of heart, a
hunger for home and friends, worse than starvation, a bitter sense
of wrong in being denied the tender ties, the pleasant duties, the
sweet rewards that can make the humblest life happy; a rebellious
protest against God, who, when they cry for bread, seems to offer
them a stone. Some of these impatient souls throw life away, and
learn too late how rich it might have been with a stronger faith, a
more submissive spirit. Others are kept, and slowly taught to stand
and wait, till blest with a happiness the sweeter for the doubt that
went before.

There came a time to Christie when the mist about her was so thick
she would have stumbled and fallen had not the little candle, kept
alight by her own hand, showed her how far "a good deed shines in a
naughty world;" and when God seemed utterly forgetful of her He sent
a friend to save and comfort her.

March winds were whistling among the house-tops, and the sky was
darkening with a rainy twilight as Christie folded up her finished
work, stretched her weary limbs, and made ready for her daily walk.
Even this was turned to profit, for then she took home her work,
went in search of more, and did her own small marketing. As late
hours and unhealthy labor destroyed appetite, and unpaid debts made
each mouthful difficult to swallow with Mrs. Flint's hard eye upon
her, she had undertaken to supply her own food, and so lessen the
obligation that burdened her. An unwise retrenchment, for, busied
with the tasks that must be done, she too often neglected or
deferred the meals to which no society lent interest, no appetite
gave flavor; and when the fuel was withheld the fire began to die
out spark by spark.

As she stood before the little mirror, smoothing the hair upon her
forehead, she watched the face reflected there, wondering if it
could be the same she used to see so full of youth and hope and
energy.

"Yes, I'm growing old; my youth is nearly over, and at thirty I
shall be a faded, dreary woman, like so many I see and pity. It's
hard to come to this after trying so long to find my place, and do
my duty. I'm a failure after all, and might as well have stayed with
Aunt Betsey or married Joe."

"Miss Devon, to-day is Saturday, and I'm makin' up my bills, so I'll
trouble you for your month's board, and as much on the old account
as you can let me have."

Mrs. Flint spoke, and her sharp voice rasped the silence like a
file, for she had entered without knocking, and her demand was the
first intimation of her presence.

Christie turned slowly round, for there was no elasticity in her
motions now; through the melancholy anxiety her face always wore of
late, there came the worried look of one driven almost beyond
endurance, and her hands began to tremble nervously as she tied on
her bonnet. Mrs. Flint was a hard woman, and dunned her debtors
relentlessly; Christie dreaded the sight of her, and would have left
the house had she been free of debt.

"I am just going to take these things home and get more work. I am
sure of being paid, and you shall have all I get. But, for Heaven's
sake, give me time."

Two days and a night of almost uninterrupted labor had given a
severe strain to her nerves, and left her in a dangerous state.
Something in her face arrested Mrs. Flint's attention; she observed
that Christie was putting on her best cloak and hat, and to her
suspicious eye the bundle of work looked unduly large.

It had been a hard day for the poor woman, for the cook had gone off
in a huff; the chamber girl been detected in petty larceny; two
desirable boarders had disappointed her; and the incapable husband
had fallen ill, so it was little wonder that her soul was tried, her
sharp voice sharper, and her sour temper sourer than ever.

"I have heard of folks putting on their best things and going out,
but never coming back again, when they owed money. It's a mean
trick, but it's sometimes done by them you wouldn't think it of,"
she said, with an aggravating sniff of intelligence.

To be suspected of dishonesty was the last drop in Christie's full
cup. She looked at the woman with a strong desire to do something
violent, for every nerve was tingling with irritation and anger. But
she controlled herself, though her face was colorless and her hands
were more tremulous than before. Unfastening her comfortable cloak
she replaced it with a shabby shawl; took off her neat bonnet and
put on a hood, unfolded six linen shirts, and shook them out before
her landlady's eyes; then retied the parcel, and, pausing on the
threshold of the door, looked back with an expression that haunted
the woman long afterward, as she said, with the quiver of strong
excitement in her voice:

"Mrs. Flint, I have always dealt honorably by you; I always mean to
do it, and don't deserve to be suspected of dishonesty like that. I
leave every thing I own behind me, and if I don't come back, you can
sell them all and pay yourself, for I feel now as if I never wanted
to see you or this room again."

Then she went rapidly away, supported by her indignation, for she
had done her best to pay her debts; had sold the few trinkets she
possessed, and several treasures given by the Carrols, to settle her
doctor's bill, and had been half killing herself to satisfy Mrs.
Flint's demands. The consciousness that she had been too lavish in
her generosity when fortune smiled upon her, made the present want
all the harder to bear. But she would neither beg nor borrow, though
she knew Harry would delight to give, and Uncle Enos lend her money,
with a lecture on extravagance, gratis.

"I'll paddle my own canoe as long as I can," she said, sternly; "and
when I must ask help I'll turn to strangers for it, or scuttle my
boat, and go down without troubling any one."

When she came to her employer's door, the servant said: "Missis was
out;" then seeing Christie's disappointed face, she added,
confidentially:

"If it's any comfort to know it, I can tell you that missis wouldn't
have paid you if she had a been to home. There's been three other
women here with work, and she's put 'em all off. She always does,
and beats 'em down into the bargain, which ain't genteel to my
thinkin'."

"She promised me I should be well paid for these, because I
undertook to get them done without fail. I've worked day and night
rather than disappoint her, and felt sure of my money," said
Christie, despondently.

"I'm sorry, but you won't get it. She told me to tell you your
prices was too high, and she could find folks to work cheaper."

"She did not object to the price when I took the work, and I have
half-ruined my eyes over the fine stitching. See if it isn't nicely
done." And Christie displayed her exquisite needlework with pride.

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