Uncle Enos never could forgive her for this piece
of folly, and Christie plainly saw that one of three
things would surely happen, if she lived on there
with no vent for her full heart and busy mind.
She would either marry Joe Butterfield in sheer desperation,
and become a farmer’s household drudge; settle
down into a sour spinster, content to make butter,
gossip, and lay up money all her days; or do what
poor Matty Stone had done, try to crush and curb her
needs and aspirations till the struggle grew too hard,
and then in a fit of despair end her life, and leave
a tragic story to haunt their quiet river.
To escape these fates but one way appeared; to break
loose from this narrow life, go out into the world
and see what she could do for herself. This idea
was full of enchantment to the eager girl, and, after
much earnest thought, she had resolved to try it.
“If I fail, I can come back,” she said
to herself, even while she scorned the thought of
failure, for with all her shy pride she was both brave
and ardent, and her dreams were of the rosiest sort.
“I won’t marry Joe; I won’t wear
myself out in a district-school for the mean sum they
give a woman; I won’t delve away here where I’m
not wanted; and I won’t end my life like a coward,
because it is dull and hard. I’ll try my
fate as mother did, and perhaps I may succeed as well.”
And Christie’s thoughts went wandering away into
the dim, sweet past when she, a happy child, lived
with loving parents in a different world from that.
Lost in these tender memories, she sat till the old
moon-faced clock behind the door struck twelve, then
the visions vanished, leaving their benison behind
them.
As she glanced backward at the smouldering fire, a
slender spire of flame shot up from the log that had
blazed so cheerily, and shone upon her as she went.
A good omen, gratefully accepted then, and remembered
often in the years to come.
Servant.
A fortnight later, and Christie was off.
Mrs. Flint had briefly answered that she had a room,
and that work was always to be found in the city.
So the girl packed her one trunk, folding away splendid
hopes among her plain gowns, and filling every corner
with happy fancies, utterly impossible plans, and
tender little dreams, so lovely at the time, so pathetic
to remember, when contact with the hard realities
of life has collapsed our bright bubbles, and the
frost of disappointment nipped all our morning glories
in their prime. The old red stage stopped at
Enos Devon’s door, and his niece crossed the
threshold after a cool handshake with the master of
the house, and a close embrace with the mistress,
who stood pouring out last words with spectacles too
dim for seeing. Fat Ben swung up the trunk, slammed
the door, mounted his perch, and the ancient vehicle
swayed with premonitory symptoms of departure.
