University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
WHICH?

MR. POWER received Christie so hospitably that
she felt at home at once, and took up her new
duties with the energy of one anxious to repay a favor.
Her friend knew well the saving power of work, and
gave her plenty of it; but it was a sort that at once
interested and absorbed her, so that she had little time
for dangerous thoughts or vain regrets. As he once
said, Mr. Power made her own troubles seem light by
showing her others so terribly real and great that she
was ashamed to repine at her own lot.

Her gift of sympathy served her well, past experience
gave her a quick eye to read the truth in others,
and the earnest desire to help and comfort made her an
excellent almoner for the rich, a welcome friend to the
poor. She was in just the right mood to give herself
gladly to any sort of sacrifice, and labored with a quiet
energy, painful to witness had any one known the hidden
suffering that would not let her rest.

If she had been a regular novel heroine at this crisis,
she would have grown gray in a single night, had a
dangerous illness, gone mad, or at least taken to pervading
the house at unseasonable hours with her back
hair down and much wringing of the hands. Being
only a commonplace woman she did nothing so romantic,
but instinctively tried to sustain and comfort herself
with the humble, wholesome duties and affections
which seldom fail to keep heads sane and hearts safe.
Yet, though her days seemed to pass so busily and
cheerfully, it must be confessed that there were lonely
vigils in the night; and sometimes in the morning
Christie's eyes were very heavy, Christie's pillow wet
with tears.

But life never is all work or sorrow; and happy
hours, helpful pleasures, are mercifully given like wayside
springs to pilgrims trudging wearily along. Mr.
Power showed Christie many such, and silently provided
her with better consolation than pity or advice.

“Deeds not words,” was his motto; and he lived it
out most faithfully. “Books and work” he gave his
new charge; and then followed up that prescription
with “healthful play” of a sort she liked, and had
longed for all her life. Sitting at his table Christie

saw the best and bravest men and women of our times;
for Mr. Power was a magnet that drew them from all
parts of the world. She saw and heard, admired and
loved them; felt her soul kindle with the desire to follow
in their steps, share their great tasks, know their
difficulties and dangers, and in the end taste the immortal
satisfactions given to those who live and labor for
their fellow-men. In such society all other aims seemed
poor and petty; for they appeared to live in a nobler
world than any she had known, and she felt as if
they belonged to another race; not men nor angels,
but a delightful mixture of the two; more as she imagined
the gods and heroes of old; not perfect, but
wonderfully strong and brave and good; each gifted
with a separate virtue, and each bent on a mission that
should benefit mankind.

Nor was this the only pleasure given her. One evening
of each week was set apart by Mr. Power for the
reception of whomsoever chose to visit him; for his
parish was a large one, and his house a safe haunt for
refugees from all countries, all oppressions.

Christie enjoyed these evenings heartily, for there
was no ceremony; each comer brought his mission,
idea, or need, and genuine hospitality made the visit
profitable or memorable to all, for entire freedom prevailed,
and there was stabling for every one's hobby.

Christie felt that she was now receiving the best culture,
acquiring the polish that society gives, and makes
truly admirable when character adds warmth and power
to its charm. The presence of her bosom-care calmed
the old unrest, softened her manners, and at times
touched her face with an expression more beautiful

than heauty. She was quite unconscious of the changes
passing over her; and if any one had told her she was
fast becoming a most attractive woman, she would
have been utterly incredulous. But others saw and
felt the new charm; for no deep experience bravely
borne can fail to leave its mark, often giving power in
return for patience, and lending a subtle loveliness to
faces whose bloom it has destroyed.

This fact was made apparent to Christie one evening
when she went down to the weekly gathering in one
of the melancholy moods which sometimes oppressed
her. She felt dissatisfied with herself because her
interest in all things began to flag, and a restless
longing for some new excitement to break up the
monotonous pain of her inner life possessed her. Being
still a little shy in company, she slipped quietly into a
recess which commanded a view of both rooms, and
sat looking listlessly about her while waiting for David,
who seldom failed to come.

A curious collection of fellow-beings was before her,
and at another time she would have found much to
interest and amuse her. In one corner a newly imported
German with an Orson-like head, thumb-ring,
and the fragrance of many meerschaums still hovering
about him, was hammering away upon some disputed
point with a scientific Frenchman, whose national
politeness was only equalled by his national volubility.
A prominent statesman was talking with a fugitive
slave; a young poet getting inspiration from the face
and voice of a handsome girl who had earned the right
to put M. D. to her name. An old philosopher was calming
the ardor of several rampant radicals, and a famous

singer was comforting the heart of an Italian exile by
talking politics in his own melodious tongue.

There were plenty of reformers: some as truculent
as Martin Luther; others as beaming and benevolent
as if the pelting of the world had only mellowed
them, and no amount of denunciatory thunder could
sour the milk of human kindness creaming in their
happy hearts. There were eager women just beginning
their protest against the wrongs that had wrecked their
peace; subdued women who had been worsted in the
unequal conflict and given it up; resolute women with
“No surrender” written all over their strong-minded
countenances; and sweet, hopeful women, whose faith
in God and man nothing could shake or sadden.

But to Christie there was only one face worth looking
at till David came, and that was Mr. Power's; for
he was a perfect host, and pervaded the rooms like a
genial atmosphere, using the welcome of eye and hand
which needs no language to interpret it, giving to each
guest the intellectual fare he loved, and making their
enjoyment his own.

“Bless the dear man! what should we all do without
him?” thought Christie, following him with grateful
eyes, as he led an awkward youth in rusty black to the
statesman whom it had been the desire of his ambitious
soul to meet.

The next minute she proved that she at least could
do without the “dear man;” for David entered the
room, and she forgot all about him. Here and at
church were the only places where the friends had
met during these months, except one or two short

visits to the little house in the lane when Christie
devoted herself to Mrs. Sterling.

David was quite unchanged, though once or twice
Christie fancied he seemed ill at ease with her, and immediately
tormented herself with the idea that some
alteration in her own manner had perplexed or offended
him. She did her best to be as frank and cordial as in
the happy old days; but it was impossible, and she soon
gave it up, assuming in the place of that former friendliness,
a grave and quiet manner which would have led
a wiser man than David to believe her busied with her
own affairs and rather indifferent to every thing else.

If he had known how her heart danced in her bosom,
her eyes brightened, and all the world became endurable,
the moment he appeared, he would not have been
so long in joining her, nor have doubted what welcome
awaited him.

As it was, he stopped to speak to his host; and, before
he reappeared, Christie had found the excitement she
had been longing for.

“Now some bore will keep him an hour, and the
evening is so short,” she thought, with a pang of disappointment;
and, turning her eyes away from the crowd
which had swallowed up her heart's desire, they fell
upon a gentleman just entering, and remained fixed
with an expression of unutterable surprise; for there,
elegant, calm, and cool as ever, stood Mr. Fletcher.

“How came he here?” was her first question; “How
will he behave to me?” her second. As she could
answer neither, she composed herself as fast as possible,
resolving to let matters take their own course, and
feeling in the mood for an encounter with a discarded

lover, as she took a womanish satisfaction in remembering
that the very personable gentleman before her had
once been.

Mr. Fletcher and his companion passed on to find
their host; and, with a glance at the mirror opposite,
which showed her that the surprise of the moment had
given her the color she lacked before, Christie occupied
herself with a portfolio of engravings, feeling very
much as she used to feel when waiting at a side scene
for her cue.

She had not long to wait before Mr. Power came up,
and presented the stranger; for such he fancied him,
never having heard a certain episode in Christie's life.
Mr. Fletcher bowed, with no sign of recognition in his
face, and began to talk in the smooth, low voice she
remembered so well. For the moment, through sheer
surprise, Christie listened and replied as any young
lady might have done to a new-made acquaintance.
But very soon she felt sure that Mr. Fletcher intended
to ignore the past; and, finding her on a higher round
of the social ladder, to accept the fact and begin again.

At first she was angry, then amused, then interested
in the somewhat dramatic turn affairs were taking, and
very wisely decided to meet him on his own ground,
and see what came of it.

In the midst of an apparently absorbing discussion
of one of Raphael's most insipid Madonnas, she was
conscious that David had approached, paused, and
was scrutinizing her companion with unusual interest.
Seized with a sudden desire to see the two men together,
Christie beckoned; and when he obeyed, she
introduced him, drew him into the conversation, and

then left him in the lurch by falling silent and taking
notes while they talked.

If she wished to wean her heart from David by seeing
him at a disadvantage, she could have devised no better
way; for, though a very feminine test, it answered the
purpose excellently.

Mr. Fletcher was a handsome man, and just then
looked his best. Improved health gave energy and
color to his formerly sallow, listless face: the cold eyes
were softer, the hard mouth suave and smiling, and
about the whole man there was that indescribable
something which often proves more attractive than
worth or wisdom to keener-sighted women than Christie.
Never had he talked better; for, as if he suspected
what was in the mind of one hearer, he exerted himself
to be as brilliant as possible, and succeeded admirably.

David never appeared so ill, for he had no clew to
the little comedy being played before him; and long
seclusion and natural reserve unfitted him to shine
beside a man of the world like Mr. Fletcher. His
simple English sounded harsh, after the foreign phrases
that slipped so easily over the other's tongue. He had
visited no galleries, seen few of the world's wonders,
and could only listen when they were discussed. More
than once he was right, but failed to prove it, for Mr.
Fletcher skilfully changed the subject or quenched him
with a politely incredulous shrug.

Even in the matter of costume, poor David was
worsted; for, in a woman's eyes, dress has wonderful
significance. Christie used to think his suit of sober gray
the most becoming man could wear; but now it looked
shapeless and shabby, beside garments which bore the

stamp of Paris in the gloss and grace of broadcloth
and fine linen. David wore no gloves: Mr. Fletcher's
were immaculate. David's tie was so plain no
one observed it: Mr. Fletcher's, elegant and faultless
enough for a modern Beau Brummel. David's handkerchief
was of the commonest sort (she knew that,
for she hemmed it herself): Mr. Fletcher's was the finest
cambric, and a delicate breath of perfume refreshed the
aristocratic nose to which the article belonged.

Christie despised herself as she made these comparisons,
and felt how superficial they were; but, having
resolved to exalt one man at the expense of the other for
her own good, she did not relent till David took advantage
of a pause, and left them with a reproachful look that
made her wish Mr. Fletcher at the bottom of the sea.

When they were alone a subtle change in his face
and manner convinced her that he also had been taking
notes, and had arrived at a favorable decision regarding
herself. Women are quick at making such discoveries;
and, even while she talked with him as a stranger,
she felt assured that, if she chose, she might make him
again her lover.

Here was a temptation! She had longed for some
new excitement, and fate seemed to have put one of
the most dangerous within her reach. It was natural
to find comfort in the knowledge that somebody loved
her, and to take pride in her power over one man,
because another did not own it. In spite of her better
self she felt the fascination of the hour, and yielded to
it, half unconsciously assuming something of the “dash
and daring” which Mr. Fletcher had once confessed to
finding so captivating in the demure governess. He

evidently thought so still, and played his part with
spirit; for, while apparently enjoying a conversation
which contained no allusion to the past, the memory of
it gave piquancy to that long tête-à-tête.

As the first guests began to go, Mr. Fletcher's friend
beckoned to him; and he rose, saying with an accent of
regret which changed to one of entreaty, as he put his
question:

“I, too, must go. May I come again, Miss Devon?”

“I am scarcely more than a guest myself; but Mr.
Power is always glad to see whoever cares to come,”
replied Christie rather primly, though her eyes were
dancing with amusement at the recollection of those
love passages upon the beach.

“Next time, I shall come not as a stranger, but as a
former — may I say friend?” he added quickly, as if
emboldened by the mirthful eyes that so belied the
demure lips.

“Now you forget your part,” and Christie's primness
vanished in a laugh. “I am glad of it, for I want to
ask about Mrs. Saltonstall and the children. I 've
often thought of the little dears, and longed to see
them.”

“They are in Paris with their father.”

“Mrs. Saltonstall is well, I hope?”

“She died six months ago.”

An expression of genuine sorrow came over Mr.
Fletcher's face as he spoke; and, remembering that the
silly little woman was his sister, Christie put out her
hand with a look and gesture so full of sympathy that
words were unnecessary. Taking advantage of this
propitious moment, he said, with an expressive glance

and effective tone: “I am all alone now. You will let
me come again?”

“Certainly, if it can give you pleasure,” she answered
heartily, forgetting herself in pity for his sorrow.

Mr. Fletcher pressed her hand with a grateful,
“Thank you!” and wisely went away at once, leaving
compassion to plead for him better than he could have
done it for himself.

Leaning back in her chair, Christie was thinking over
this interview so intently that she started when David's
voice said close beside her:

“Shall I disturb you if I say, `Good-night'?”

“I thought you were not going to say it at all,”
she answered rather sharply.

“I 've been looking for a chance; but you were so
absorbed with that man I had to wait.”

“Considering the elegance of `that man,' you don't
treat him with much respect.”

“I don't feel much. What brought him here, I wonder.
A French salon is more in his line.”

“He came to see Mr. Power, as every one else does,
of course.”

“Don't dodge, Christie: you know he came to see
you.”

“How do you like him?” she asked, with treacherous
abruptness.

“Not particularly, so far. But if I knew him, I dare
say I should find many good traits in him.”

“I know you would!” said Christie, warmly, not
thinking of Fletcher, but of David's kindly way of
finding good in every one.

“He must have improved since you saw him last;
for then, if I remember rightly, you found him `lazy,
cross, selfish, and conceited.”'

“Now, David, I never said any thing of the sort,”
began Christie, wondering what possessed him to be so
satirical and short with her.

“Yes, you did, last September, sitting on the old
apple-tree the morning of your birthday.”

“What an inconvenient memory you have! Well,
he was all that then; but he is not an invalid now, and
so we see his real self.”

“I also remember that you gave me the impression
that he was an elderly man.”

“Isn't forty elderly?”

“He wasn't forty when you taught his siter's children.”

“No; but he looked older than he does now, being
so ill. I used to think he would be very handsome
with good health; and now I see I was right,” said
Christie, with feigned enthusiasm; for it was a new
thing to tease David, and she liked it.

But she got no more of it; for, just then, the singer
began to sing to the select few who remained, and
every one was silent. Leaning on the high back of
Christie's chair, David watched the reflection of her
face in the long mirror; for she listened to the music
with downcast eyes, unconscious what eloquent expressions
were passing over her countenance. She
seemed a new Christie to David, in that excited mood;
and, as he watched her, he thought:

“She loved this man once, or he loved her; and to-night
it all comes back to her. How will it end?”

So earnestly did he try to read that altered face that
Christie felt the intentness of his gaze, looked up suddenly,
and met his eyes in the glass. Something in the
expression of those usually serene eyes, now darkened
and dilated with the intensity of that long scrutiny,
surprised and troubled her; and, scarcely knowing what
she said, she asked quickly:

“Who are you admiring?”

“Not myself.”

“I wonder if you 'd think me vain if I asked you
something that I want to know?” she said, obeying a
sudden impulse.

“Ask it, and I 'll tell you.”

“Am I much changed since you first knew me?”

“Very much.”

“For the better or the worse?”

“The better, decidedly.”

“Thank you, I hoped so; but one never knows how
one seems to other people. I was wondering what
you saw in the glass.”

“A good and lovely woman, Christie.”

How sweet it sounded to hear David say that! so
simply and sincerely that it was far more than a mere
compliment. She did not thank him, but said softly as
if to herself:

— and then sat silent, so full of satisfaction in the
thought that David found her “good and lovely,” she
could not resist stealing a glance at the tell-tale mirror
to see if she might believe him.

She forgot herself, however; for he was off guard now,
and stood looking away with brows knit, lips tightly

set, and eyes fixed, yet full of fire; his whole attitude
and expression that of a man intent on subduing some
strong impulse by a yet stronger will.

It startled Christie; and she leaned forward, watching
him with breathless interest till the song ceased, and,
with the old impatient gesture, David seemed to relapse
into his accustomed quietude.

“It was the wonderful music that excited him: that
was all;” thought Christie; yet, when he came round
to say good-night, the strange expression was not gone,
and his manner was not his own.

“Shall I ask if I may come again,” he said, imitating
Mr. Fletcher's graceful bow with an odd smile.

“I let him come because he has lost his sister, and is
lonely,” began Christie, but got no further, for David
said, “Good-night!” abruptly, and was gone without a
word to Mr. Power.

“He 's in a hurry to get back to his Kitty,” she
thought, tormenting herself with feminine skill. “Never
mind,” she added, with a defiant sort of smile; “I 've
got my Philip, handsomer and more in love than ever,
if I 'm not deceived. I wonder if he will come again?”

Mr. Fletcher did come again, and with flattering regularity,
for several weeks, evidently finding something
very attractive in those novel gatherings. Mr. Power
soon saw why he came; and, as Christie seemed to enjoy
his presence, the good man said nothing to disturb her,
though he sometimes cast an anxious glance toward the
recess where the two usually sat, apparently busy with
books or pictures; yet, by their faces, showing that an
under current of deeper interest than art or literature
flowed through their intercourse.

Christie had not deceived herself, and it was evident
that her old lover meant to try his fate again, if she
continued to smile upon him as she had done of late.
He showed her his sunny side now, and very pleasant
she found it. The loss of his sister had touched his
heart, and made him long to fill the place her death
left vacant. Better health sweetened his temper, and
woke the desire to do something worth the doing; and
the sight of the only woman he had ever really loved,
reawakened the sentiment that had not died, and made
it doubly sweet.

Why he cared for Christie he could not tell, but he
never had forgotten her; and, when he met her again
with that new beauty in her face, he felt that time had
only ripened the blithe girl into a deep-hearted woman,
and he loved her with a better love than before. His
whole manner showed this; for the half-careless, half-condescending
air of former times was replaced by the
most courteous respect, a sincere desire to win her
favor, and at times the tender sort of devotion women
find so charming.

Christie felt all this, enjoyed it, and tried to be
grateful for it in the way he wished, thinking that hearts
could be managed like children, and when one toy is
unattainable, be appeased by a bigger or a brighter one
of another sort.

“I must love some one,” she said, as she leaned over
a basket of magnificent flowers just left for her by Mr.
Fletcher's servant, a thing which often happened now.
“Philip has loved me with a fidelity that ought to touch
my heart. Why not accept him, and enjoy a new life
of luxury, novelty, and pleasure? All these things he

can give me: all these things are valued, admired, and
sought for; and who would appreciate them more than
I? I could travel, cultivate myself in many delightful
ways, and do so much good. No matter if I was not
very happy: I should make Philip so, and have it in my
power to comfort many poor souls. That ought to satisfy
me; for what is nobler than to live for others?”

This idea attracted her, as it does all generous natures;
she became enamoured of self-sacrifice, and almost persuaded
herself that it was her duty to marry Mr.
Fletcher, whether she loved him or not, in order that
she might dedicate her life to the service of poorer,
sadder creatures than herself.

But in spite of this amiable delusion, in spite of the
desire to forget the love she would have in the love she
might have, and in spite of the great improvement in
her faithful Philip, Christie could not blind herself to
the fact that her head, rather than her heart, advised
the match; she could not conquer a suspicion that, however
much Mr. Fletcher might love his wife, he would
be something of a tyrant, and she was very sure she
never would make a good slave. In her cooler moments
she remembered that men are not puppets, to
be moved as a woman's will commands, and the uncertainty
of being able to carry out her charitable plans
made her pause to consider whether she would not be
selling her liberty too cheaply, if in return she got only
dependence and bondage along with fortune and a
home.

So tempted and perplexed, self-deluded and self-warned,
attracted and repelled, was poor Christie, that
she began to feel as if she had got into a labyrinth

without any clew to bring her safely out. She longed
to ask advice of some one, but could not turn to Mrs.
Sterling; and what other woman friend had she except
Rachel, from whom she had not heard for months?

As she asked herself this question one day, feeling
sure that Mr. Fletcher would come in the evening, and
would soon put his fortune to the touch again, the
thought of Mrs. Wilkins seemed to answer her.

“Why not?” said Christie: “she is sensible, kind,
and discreet; she may put me right, for I 'm all in a
tangle now with doubts and fears, feelings and fancies.
I 'll go and see her: that will do me good, even
if I don't say a word about my `werryments,' as the
dear soul would call them.”

Away she went, and fortunately found her friend
alone in the “settin'-room,” darning away at a perfect
stack of socks, as she creaked comfortably to and fro
in her old rocking-chair.

“I was jest wishin' somebody would drop in: it 's
so kinder lonesome with the children to school and
Adelaide asleep. How be you, dear?” said Mrs. Wilkins,
with a hospitable hug and a beaming smile.

“I 'm worried in my mind, so I came to see you,”
answered Christie, sitting down with a sigh.

“Bless your dear heart, what is to pay. Free your
mind, and I 'll do my best to lend a hand.”

The mere sound of that hearty voice comforted
Christie, and gave her courage to introduce the little
fiction under which she had decided to defraud Mrs.
Wilkins of her advice. So she helped herself to a
very fragmentary blue sock and a big needle, that she
might have employment for her eyes, as they were not

so obedient as her tongue, and then began in as easy a
tone as she could assume.

“Well, you see a friend of mine wants my advice on
a very serious matter, and I really don't know what to
give her. It is strictly confidential, you know, so I
won't mention any names, but just set the case before
you and get your opinion, for I 've great faith in your
sensible way of looking at things.”

“Thanky, dear, you 'r welcome to my 'pinion ef it 's
wuth any thing. Be these folks you tell of young?”
asked Mrs. Wilkins, with evident relish for the mystery.

“No, the woman is past thirty, and the man 'most
forty, I believe,” said Christie, darning away in some
trepidation at having taken the first plunge.

“My patience! ain't the creater old enough to know
her own mind? for I s'pose she 's the one in the quanderry?”
exclaimed Mrs. Wilkins, looking over her
spectacles with dangerously keen eyes.

“The case is this,” said Christie, in guilty haste.
“The `creature' is poor and nobody, the man rich and
of good family, so you see it 's rather hard for her to
decide.”

“No, I don't see nothin' of the sort,” returned blunt
Mrs. Wilkins. “Ef she loves the man, take him: ef
she don't, give him the mittin and done with it. Money
and friends and family ain't much to do with the matter
accordin' to my view. It 's jest a plain question
betwixt them two. Ef it takes much settlin' they 'd
better let it alone.”

“She doesn't love him as much as she might, I fancy,
but she is tired of grubbing along alone. He is very

fond of her, and very rich; and it would be a fine thing
for her in a worldly way, I 'm sure.”

“Oh, she 's goin' to marry for a livin' is she? Wal,
now I 'd ruther one of my girls should grub the wust
kind all their days than do that. Hows'ever, it may
suit some folks ef they ain't got much heart, and is
contented with fine clothes, nice vittles, and handsome
furnitoor. Selfish, cold, silly kinder women might git
on, I dare say; but I shouldn't think any friend of
your'n would be one of that sort.”

“But she might do a great deal of good, and make
others happy even if she was not so herself.”

“She might, but I doubt it, for money got that way
wouldn't prosper wal. Mis'able folks ain't half so
charitable as happy ones; and I don't believe five dollars
from one of 'em would go half so fur, or be half
so comfortin' as a kind word straight out of a cheerful
heart. I know some thinks that is a dreadful smart
thing to do; but I don't, and ef any one wants to go a
sacrificin' herself for the good of others, there 's better
ways of doin' it than startin' with a lie in her mouth.”

Mrs. Wilkins spoke warmly; for Christie's face made
her fiction perfectly transparent, though the good woman
with true delicacy showed no sign of intelligence on
that point.

“Then you wouldn't advise my friend to say yes?”

“Sakes alive, no! I 'd say to her as I did to my
younger sisters when their courtin' time come: `Jest
be sure you 're right as to there bein' love enough, then
go ahead, and the Lord will bless you.”'

“Did they follow your advice?”

“They did, and both is prosperin' in different ways.

Gusty, she found she was well on't for love, so she married,
though Samuel Buck was poor, and they 're happy
as can be a workin' up together, same as Lisha and me
did. Addy, she calc'lated she wan't satisfied somehow,
so she didn't marry, though James Miller was wal off;
and she 's kep stiddy to her trade, and ain't never
repented. There 's a sight said and writ about such
things,” continued Mrs. Wilkins, rambling on to give
Christie time to think; “but I 've an idee that women's
hearts is to be trusted ef they ain't been taught all
wrong. Jest let 'em remember that they take a husband
for wuss as well as better (and there 's a sight of
wuss in this tryin' world for some on us), and be ready
to do their part patient and faithful, and I ain't a
grain afraid but what they 'll be fetched through, always
pervidin' they love the man and not his money.”

There was a pause after that last speech, and Christie
felt as if her perplexity was clearing away very fast; for
Mrs. Wilkins's plain talk seemed to show her things in
their true light, with all the illusions of false sentiment
and false reasoning stripped away. She felt
clearer and stronger already, and as if she could make
up her mind very soon when one other point had been
discussed.

“I fancy my friend is somewhat influenced by the
fact that this man loved and asked her to marry him
some years ago. He has not forgotten her, and this
touches her heart more than any thing else. It seems
as if his love must be genuine to last so long, and not
to mind her poverty, want of beauty, and accomplishments;
for he is a proud and fastidious man.”

“I think wal of him for that!” said Mrs. Wilkins,

approvingly; “but I guess she 's wuth all he gives her,
for there must be somethin' pretty gennywin' in her
to make him overlook her lacks and hold on so stiddy.
It don't alter her side of the case one mite though; for
love is love, and ef she ain't got it, he 'd better not
take gratitude instid, but sheer off and leave her for
somebody else.”

“Nobody else wants her!” broke from Christie like
an involuntary cry of pain; then she hid her face by
stopping to gather up the avalanche of hosiery which
fell from her lap to the floor.

“She can't be sure of that,” said Mrs. Wilkins
cheerily, though her spectacles were dim with sudden
mist. “I know there 's a mate for her somewheres, so
she 'd better wait a spell and trust in Providence. It
wouldn't be so pleasant to see the right one come along
after she 'd went and took the wrong one in a hurry:
would it? Waitin' is always safe, and time needn't
be wasted in frettin' or bewailin'; for the Lord knows
there 's a sight of good works sufferin' to be done, and
single women has the best chance at 'em.”

“I 've accomplished one good work at any rate; and,
small as it is, I feel better for it. Give this sock to
your husband, and tell him his wife sets a good example
both by precept and practice to other women, married
or single. Thank you very much, both for myself and
my friend, who shall profit by your advice,” said Christie,
feeling that she had better go before she told every
thing.

“I hope she will,” returned Mrs. Wilkins, as her
guest went away with a much happier face than the
one she brought. “And ef I know her, which I think

I do, she 'll find that Cinthy Wilkins ain't fur from
right, ef her experience is good for any thing,” added
the matron with a sigh, and a glance at a dingy photograph
of her Lisha on the wall, a sigh that seemed to
say there had been a good deal of “wuss” in her bargain,
though she was too loyal to confess it.

Something in Christie's face struck Mr. Fletcher at
once when he appeared that evening. He had sometimes
found her cold and quiet, often gay and capricious,
usually earnest and cordial, with a wistful look
that searched his face and both won and checked him
by its mute appeal, seeming to say, “Wait a little till
I have taught my heart to answer as you wish.”

To-night her eyes shunned his, and when he caught
a glimpse of them they were full of a soft trouble;
her manner was kinder than ever before, and yet it
made him anxious, for there was a resolute expression
about her lips even when she smiled, and though
he ventured upon allusions to the past hitherto tacitly
avoided, she listened as if it had no tender charm for
her.

Being thoroughly in earnest now, Mr. Fletcher resolved
to ask the momentous question again without delay.
David was not there, and had not been for several
weeks, another thorn in Christie's heart, though she
showed no sign of regret, and said to herself, “It is
better so.” His absence left Fletcher master of the
field, and he seized the propitious moment.

“Will you show me the new picture? Mr. Power
spoke of it, but I do not like to trouble him.”

“With pleasure,” and Christie led the way to a
little room where the newly arrived gift was placed.

She knew what was coming, but was ready, and felt
a tragic sort of satisfaction in the thought of all she
was relinquishing for love of David.

No one was in the room, but a fine copy of Michael
Angelo's Fates hung on the wall, looking down at them
with weird significance.

“They look as if they would give a stern answer
to any questioning of ours,” Mr. Fletcher said, after a
glance of affected interest.

“They would give a true one I fancy,” answered
Christie, shading her eyes as if to see the better.

“I 'd rather question a younger, fairer Fate, hoping
that she will give me an answer both true and kind.
May I, Christie?”

“I will be true but — I cannot be kind.” It cost her
much to say that; yet she did it steadily, though he
held her hand in both his own, and waited for her
words with ardent expectation.

“Not yet perhaps, — but in time, when I have proved
how sincere my love is, how entire my repentance for
the ungenerous words you have not forgotten. I wanted
you then for my own sake, now I want you for yourself,
because I love and honor you above all women. I tried
to forget you, but I could not; and all these years have
carried in my heart a very tender memory of the girl
who dared to tell me that all I could offer her was
not worth her love.”

“I was mistaken,” began Christie, finding this wooing
much harder to withstand than the other.

“No, you were right: I felt it then and resented it,
but I owned it later, and regretted it more bitterly than
I can tell. I 'm not worthy of you; I never shall be: but

I 've loved you for five years without hope, and I 'll
wait five more if in the end you will come to me.
Christie, I need you very much!”

If Mr. Fletcher had gone down upon his knees and
poured out the most ardent protestations that ever left
a lover's lips, it would not have touched her as did that
last little appeal, uttered with a break in the voice that
once was so proud and was so humble now.

“Forgive me!” she cried, looking up at him with
real respect in her face, and real remorse smiting her
conscience. “Forgive me! I have misled you and myself.
I tried to love you: I was grateful for your regard,
touched by your fidelity, and I hoped I might repay it;
but I cannot! I cannot!”

“Why?”

Such a hard question! She owed him all the truth,
yet how could she tell it? She could not in words,
but her face did, for the color rose and burned on
cheeks and forehead with painful fervor; her eyes
fell, and her lips trembled as if endeavoring to keep
down the secret that was escaping against her will.
A moment of silence as Mr. Fletcher searched for
the truth and found it; then he said with such sharp
pain in his voice that Christie's heart ached at the
sound:

“I see: I am too late?”

“Yes.”

“And there is no hope?”

“None.”

“Then there is nothing more for me to say but
good-by. May you be happy.”

“I shall not be; — I have no hope; — I only try to be

true to you and to myself. Oh, believe it, and pity me
as I do you!”

As the words broke from Christie, she covered up
her face, bowed down with the weight of remorse
that made her long to atone for what she had done
by any self-humiliation.

Mr. Fletcher was at his best at that moment; for
real love ennobles the worst and weakest while it
lasts: but he could not resist the temptation that confession
offered him. He tried to be generous, but the
genuine virtue was not in him; he did want Christie
very much, and the knowledge of a rival in her heart
only made her the dearer.

“I 'm not content with your pity, sweet as it is: I
want your love, and I believe that I might earn it
if you would let me try. You are all alone, and life is
hard to you: come to me and let me make it happier.
I 'll be satisfied with friendship till you can give me
more.”

He said this very tenderly, caressing the bent head
while he spoke, and trying to express by tone and
gesture how eagerly he longed to receive and cherish
what that other man neglected.

Christie felt this to her heart's core, and for a moment
longed to end the struggle, say, “Take me,” and accept
the shadow for the substance. But those last words of
his vividly recalled the compact made with David that
happy birthday night. How could she be his friend if
she was Mr. Fletcher's wife? She knew she could not
be true to both, while her heart reversed the sentiment
she then would owe them: David's friendship was
dearer than Philip's love, and she would keep it at all

costs. These thoughts flashed through her mind in the
drawing of a breath, and she looked up, saying steadily
in spite of wet eyes and still burning cheeks:

“Hope nothing; wait for nothing from me. I will
have no more delusions for either of us: it is weak
and wicked, for I know I shall not change. Some time
we may venture to be friends perhaps, but not now.
Forgive me, and be sure I shall suffer more than you
for this mistake of mine.”

When she had denied his suit before he had been
ungenerous and angry; for his pride was hurt and his
will thwarted: now his heart bled and hope died hard;
but all that was manliest in him rose to help him bear
the loss, for this love was genuine, and made him both
just and kind. His face was pale with the pain of that
fruitless passion, and his voice betrayed how hard he
strove for self-control, as he said hurriedly:

“You need not suffer: this mistake has given me
the happiest hours of my life, and I am better for having
known so sweet and true a woman. God bless you,
Christie!” and with a quick embrace that startled her
by its suddenness and strength he left her, standing
there alone before the three grim Fates.